Two Steps Back
by darrah
Summary: Twilight ends, Archer wakes up to his old reality, his memory intact but fractured, his life at a crossroads, his ship and world threatened, and his friendships strained
1. Chapter 1: Sight Unseen

**TWO STEPS BACK – CHAPTER 1/5**

AUTHOR: darrah

SPOILERS: Twilight, Xindi.

SUMMARY: This is an experiment in speculation. After "Twilight" ends, Archer wakes up in Sickbay to his old reality, his memory intact fractured, his life at a crossroads, his ship and world threatened, and his friendships strained. As the weeks pass in the Expanse, he realizes two things – his center of gravity has shifted from his self to another; and that the phrase "tomorrow is another day" is a sop for the weak.

DISCLAIMER: Not mine. I only play with them.

ARCHIVE: Please keep headers intact and tell me where.

FEEDBACK: PG for this chapter.

CATEGORY: A/TP, some hints at T/TP.

NOTES: This is my first ENT story and was originally written and posted in mid-December 2003, prior to Image in the Sand and Damage Revisited. The triad of Archer, T'Pol and Trip fascinates me: oh the possibilities, the nuances, the pathos! So here I am, with my little contribution to their dynamic. Please be honest in your comments. I'm here to learn. One more thing, if you hate triangles, be patient, give this a try. You might like it, you never know! If you hate it, send me hate-mail. I can take it. I'm a big girl. :)

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT: Grateful thanks to Monica for her encouragement and being there for me when I needed the support. This story wouldn't be writing itself if she hadn't urged me on.

**---**

**Chapter One: Sight Unseen**

---

_It's the same thing night on night __  
__Who's wrong, baby, who's right __  
__Another fight and I slam the door on __  
__Another battle in our dirty little war __  
__When I look at myself I don't see __  
__The man I wanted to be __  
__Somewhere along the line I slipped off track __  
__I'm caught movin' one step up and two steps back…_

From _"One Step Up"_; Bruce Springsteen; Tunnel of Love

---

Jonathan Archer woke up in a sweat and the world spun around him; and kept spinning. He clutched at anything solid and encountered cotton and dura-steel. The sheets were wet and smelled of his sweat. He touched his face. Wet, too. Was he crying?

For the first few moments, he had no idea where he was and how he came to be there but the first image in his head was – T'Pol. He felt her presence within him, around him. But she wasn't there with him. Why? She was usually there when he woke up, puttering around their bedroom, straightening a pillow here, arranging a vase of sunflowers there – her mere presence a quiet salve for his wounds.

Archer let his lips form her name; let his closed eyes envision her face. Yet he knew she would not answer; her delicately shaped hands would not cover his; her voice would not reassure his doubts. She seemed near, and yet farther away than she'd ever been from him.

This was a different reality.

He heaved his shoulders up slightly and allowed his weight to rest on his elbows.

Darkness stretched out around him, smelling of acrid solutions and cleansing product. He was lying in a narrow bed, a curtain drawn in a semi-circle obscuring the rest of the room. His head ached with a dull throb and his body was too warm for the layers of blankets covering him.

And T'Pol was still missing.

Archer's inherent pragmatism won a handy battle with dismay. Okay, so he was in Sickbay. He'd been dreaming. And now he needed to get to his quarters.

He sighed and stretched lazily, then swung his legs over the bed, noting that they were bare. Somebody had divested him of his uniform before putting him to bed, probably Phlox. He felt the room tilt, then right itself as he drew a deep breath. He stood up and tested his feet. The ground felt firm and cool. The ship was moving at a steady speed. That much he could decipher. The hour was late, the Sickbay quiet, and the sounds of Phlox's irrepressible pets muted. Archer was sure the Denobulan was nearby, completing his nightly regimen, ready to pounce on him at the first signs of life.

Doctors!

He stepped lightly, thanking the gods for a starship's super-techie, non-creaky floors. He knew exactly where Phlox kept extra pairs of clean trousers and shirts. Feeling his way around, he tiptoed to a side locker, opened the door a fraction, and stepped in.

He hadn't turned the Sickbay lights on. No point in waking the dead.

Or the hibernating.

As his vision adjusted itself to the chiaroscuro of the enclosed space, various crew uniforms on the top two shelves revealed themselves. Just a pair of pants would do for now. That was all he needed to get to his quarters. He felt sweaty and smelly all over. Yechh! A nice, hot shower was in order. ASAP.

The Sickbay lights came on just as he was slipping into a pair of flannel exercise pants. Phlox stood in the doorway of the locker.

"Now, now, Captain. I don't remember saying you could get up and walk around, much less get dressed!"

"Phlox, we've got to do something about those sickbay beds!"

"What's wrong with them?"

"Let's just say that if I'd been sleeping in MY bed, I wouldn't be awake prowling Sickbay at the moment." Archer knew a whiny tone when he heard one. He'd heard it often enough from his chief engineer.

Phlox's Cheshire cat grin was in full view. Archer winced.

"Captain, you may go to your quarters, but you have to report back here by 0900 hours tomorrow morning. Otherwise, I am not giving you bridge or even mess hall clearance." Phlox held up a hand. "And yes, I am DEAD serious. And I want you to get some QUALITY sleep. By that, I mean you should NOT be up and about before 0800. Do you have a headache?"

"A small one," Archer heaved a sigh.

DEAD serious? QUALITY sleep? The good doctor had been spending too damned much time with Trip.

"Sure, fine, whatever. I'll be back in the morning. Just let me…" his voice trembled a bit from exhaustion.

Phlox shook his head.

"Captain, please go to bed. But at the first sign of any distress from the concussion, I want you to be back here—"

"—Okay, okay! I promise."

"And Captain…"

Archer halted – half his body already out the Sickbay doors – and looked back at the doctor. Phlox had a strange look on his face, his mouth scrunched into a tight little bun, his eyes unsure.

"Spit it out, Phlox," Archer said. "Bad news…?"

"No Captain… at least not that I know of yet. But… actually, well, I wanted to talk to you a little… _in private_." The last word was almost a whisper.

Archer frowned a little. His feet were already deep in the tap dance of flight from the antiseptic air of sickbay. He craned his head and looked around sickbay. There didn't seem to be anybody else here. Phlox could be such a drama queen at times.

"Oh? What about?" He hoped the good doctor heard the impatience (or was it resignation?) in his voice.

Phlox bit the side of his cheek. His eyes were hooded as he considered. Then he straightened. His words sounded rushed, as if he was in a hurry to get them out.

"Captain, you haven't been sleeping well, you have lost a considerable amount of weight, and you have been very… shall we say… remote… for the last few weeks. We're all a little concerned."

"We…?" Archer looked at Phlox.

"The 'we' denotes your senior officers. I, too, am very worried. I would like you to have a full physical examination as soon as possible, sir."

Hmm, from the looks of things, some serious arm-twisting was to follow, especially now that the 'sir' had been dusted out.

Archer was silent. He really didn't have the time or the patience for this. Right now, he had no intention of either talking to anyone, or submitting to a physical. But he knew that the more he protested the more Phlox would pull out the Book of (Obscure) Rules of Medical Ethics vs. Command Functions to throw at him.

"You just gave me a physical, Phlox."

"That was not a real physical, Captain! You know very well what I mean." Archer could feel himself getting agitated. The dream had calmed him somehow, almost re-energized him. But now solitude beckoned again. Powerful. Seductive.

"Well, I am not going to discuss this now, Phlox. I am perfectly healthy, thanks to you!" Archer threw that one in, hoping it would take the sting out of what he was about to say. "But I am not going to have my head examined by you or any of my senior officers. I have enough to worry about as it is. And I need all of my faculties intact. I don't need any distractions right now."

His eyes caught Phlox's determined look, the "I am the doctor and I know best" look and despite his best intentions, he felt his voice sharpen.

"Please, Doctor, just leave me alone, alright!"

He realized he was shouting. Lately, it seemed, he did that a bit too much. Phlox looked shocked. His eyes were narrowed and his mouth held in a straight line. Archer began to feel a tiny bit of remorse and, perhaps, embarrassment.

As the silence lengthened, Archer sighed. He was exhausted. He needed some sleep right now.

But Phlox beat him to it.

"…Captain, it can wait." His ample form half-turned and his hands got busy with what looked like testing crucibles and tissue samples and the like. "Go to bed and have a good night's rest. We'll talk tomorrow."

Archer didn't even wait for Phlox to finish his sentence; he was out of Sickbay in the next nanosecond.

He keyed open the door to his quarters, and realized that his headache had returned with a vengeance. As he groped for his pajamas, he saw that Porthos was nowhere. His little bed was empty and his toys missing. Archer frowned. Just how long had he been out of it all? Two days, right? Had he left his dog with someone else? Oh lord, please don't let it be Phlox. Archer found himself almost mouthing the words to an ancient prayer his mother had taught him. Despite the extent of the doctor's own menagerie, Archer didn't trust Phlox when it came to his own multi-legged creature, especially after that horrific night in Sickbay. Since then, Archer had kept Porthos away from Phlox. Irrational, he knew, but there it was. Phlox had saved more than Porthos' ass that night. He has saved Archer's sanity. But it was a captain's privilege to be irrational about his loved ones. Or something like that. Well. Whatever.

Dropping the pajamas on the bed, Archer took a quick shower and pulled on a pair of cords and a tee-shirt. As he walked down the corridor, he considered. It was 0155. Well past time for the midnight snack Porthos and he often shared. By "midnight snack", he really meant cheese: The Forbidden Food. Oh, just who was he kidding? Archer knew it was really he who had spoiled his pet. It was his own incessant penchant for cheese that had started Porthos on it. Except that Porthos didn't react too well to the stuff. Someday… someday, he thought, I am going to get him hung up on things better digested.

So where could he be right now? Who would be kind enough to take his beagle in, feed him, put up with him? Could it be T'Pol? These days, at times, she seemed to even like Porthos. Archer had caught her stroking Porthos' fur when she thought no one was paying any attention. Hmm.

But T'Pol was probably fast asleep right now.

In her blue silk pajamas.

With her midriff bare.

Now where had THAT come from! Good god. Please! DON'T GO THERE. Not again. He gave himself a stern mental shake.

Anyway, so who else could it be? Cutler? Hoshi? Reed? Trip? Archer knew his pet followed his stomach.

Cheese! That must be it.

Somebody must have been sneaking Porthos cheese on the sly.

Right, it was either the galley or Trip's quarters. Archer harrumphed a little. Trip must have spoiled Porthos silly these past couple of days. With his master gone, the little monster was free to frolic and feed to his heart's content. Cheese must have been only the start. Porthos could be one fat little beagle by now.

A reluctant grin curved his lips as he stretched his arms out and scrunched his shoulders into his neck. Aaaah! That felt good. Things were bad, yes. Phlox wasn't far off the mark. He still felt the crushing sense of defeat and helpless paranoia that had crowded his every pore since they'd entered the Expanse, but he felt okay right now and a minute or two with Trip before bed might be just what the good doctor ordered. If he was sleeping, Archer figured, he'd go wake him up for just a bit. Just for a bit.

He'd missed Trip. It seemed they hadn't had one of their guy talk things in ages.

Archer began to whistle, not even noticing that this was the third time he'd rung the door chime at Trip's quarters. No answer. Was he sleeping? Maybe Porthos was sleeping as well. Archer considered beeping Trip then decided against it. If he was indeed sleeping, it would not do to wake him up. Maybe he could just slip in and get Porthos? He hit the chime again and waited. Then he keyed in his own command code that opened the hatch to Tucker's quarters.

"Computer, lights."

His beloved beagle was there – curled up in a little bed Trip must have made for him. Aww. That Trip. What a sucker. He'd even gotten some of Porthos' toys. They lay in a semblance of happy disarray around his sleeping beagle.

Archer picked him up gently and the pup sniffed a little, burrowing his head into his master's chest, instantly recognizing "home" when it came to him.

Archer stroked him and looked around. The bed was empty. It didn't look as if Trip had even made it to bed tonight. He was probably in Engineering. Or the Galley. Getting his pie and milk regimen. Straight up.

Very good. He'd trudge to the galley then. He was kind of getting hungry, as well.

But the mess hall and the kitchen were all dark. No sign of Trip. A couple of crew-women passed him and the look in their eyes, despite the nonchalant greetings, told him he was wandering the corridors in his civvies. This wouldn't do at all. It was way past midnight and he and his dog needed their sleep. He didn't want the good doctor to order him back to Sickbay the next day on account of exhaustion.

He stopped at a wall comm. and pressed the button. It beeped back at him.

"Bridge, this is Archer."

"Captain! This is Lt. Foster at the con, sir. How are you feeling, sir!"

Archer smiled. "I am fine, thanks. At ease, Lieutenant. Is there anybody from alpha shift on the bridge?"

"No sir. They are all off duty. We're delta shifting now, sir!" The Lieutenant's voice conveyed suppressed excitement, probably at the thought of speaking to the Captain at such an odd hour. Archer made a mental note of speaking one-on-one more often to the beta, delta, and gamma shifts in his off hours. He needed to know these young ones even better. Maybe after this mission. If they all came back safe and sound.

At the very thought, he began to feel a stiffening in his spine, a curdling in his stomach.

Cut it out, Archer!

He took a deep breath. "Lieutenant, do you have an update for me? How's it going up there?"

"All systems go, sir! No problems. We're maintaining course at half impulse."

Where to? No matter. He'd get all that from T'Pol tomorrow. Right now, his very bones were weary.

"Alright, carry on. I'll be in my quarters getting some sleep."

"Very good, sir! Good night to you!"

"Good night, Lieutenant. Oh, by the way, is engineering delta shifting, do you know?"

"Yes, sir, they are."

"What about Commander Tucker? Do you know where he is?"

He hated this: asking around for his senior officers. There should be a way to check his officers' whereabouts without waking the dead. Still, it was way past midnight and he'd been sick. So he could be forgiven some laxity of control.

There was a silence but sounds of consulting voices filtered through the comm. system. Then Foster was back.

"Captain, as far as we know, Commander Tucker should be asleep. Would you like us to try his comm., sir?" Boy, they were eager up there, weren't they?

Archer smiled. "Oh, no, it's fine. I'll see him tomorrow." He didn't want to cause any more fuss than he already had. He'd find Trip himself. If not tonight, then tomorrow.

Foster's voice came through the comm. again. "And sir, just to let you know, he has Porthos with him."

Archer smiled. Porthos was much adored on this ship. And he knew it, the spoiled little beast.

He lightly patted the snoring snout at his shoulder. One ear perked up and he felt a tiny, wet lick on his forearm.

"Thank you Lt. Foster. Carry on. Archer out."

Archer stroked his beagle's soft, downy fur for a moment. Then, whistling under his breath, he thumbed a different code on the comm. – a code that was still experimental at Starfleet Science and Tech; to be used only at the captain's discretion for emergency purposes. It was designed to allow voice control of the comm. to the commanding officers of the ship.

At his touch, the comm. came alive and responded in audio mode.

"System working," a mechanical, slightly stentorian male voice piped.

Archer frowned and shook his head. Way too forbidding, but it'd do for now.

"Computer, where is Commander Tucker?"

"Commander Tucker – current location – Subcommander T'Pol's cabin."

T'Pol's quarters.

Trip.

Trip was in T'Pol's quarters.

Now.

At… 0234 hours.

Archer felt frozen. A cold frisson traveled from the small of his back, down the back of his thighs, to his ankles, and he almost sat down, right there, in the corridor.

He thumbed the comm. shut and started to walk. He had no idea when or how he got back to his own quarters. As he lowered Porthos to his bed and pulled on his pajamas, a hammer pounded into the jumble of thoughts in his skull. Pouring some cold water, he swallowed, in quick succession, three of the painkillers Phlox had given him. He suspected that the analgesic in the pills were backed by some powerful sedatives. That's good. I need to just not wake up one of these days.

As sleep claimed him, the last thought in his head was – so the rumors are true.

---

TBC


	2. Chapter 2: Oh Captain, My Captain!

**TWO STEPS BACK - CHAPTER 2/5**

AUTHOR: darrah

SPOILERS: Twilight; Xindi.

SUMMARY: This is an experiment in speculation. After "Twilight" ends, Archer wakes up in Sickbay to his old reality, his memory fractured, his life at a crossroads, his ship and world threatened, and his friendships strained. As the weeks pass in the expanse, he realizes two things – his center of gravity has shifted from his self to another; and that the phrase "tomorrow is another day" is a sop for the weak.

DISCLAIMER: Not mine. I only play with them.

ARCHIVE: Please keep headers intact and tell me where.

FEEDBACK: PG-13 for this chapter.

CATEGORY: A/TP, some T/TP.

NOTES: This is my first ENT story and was originally written and posted in mid-December 2003, prior to Image in the Sand and Damage Revisited. The triad of Archer, T'Pol and Trip fascinates me: oh the possibilities, the nuances, the pathos! So here I am, with my little contribution to their dynamic. Please be honest in your comments. I'm here to learn. One more thing, if you hate triangles, be patient, give this a try. You might like it, you never know! If you hate it, send me hate-mail. I can take it. I'm a big girl. :)

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT: Grateful thanks to Monica for her encouragement and being there for me when I needed the support. This story wouldn't be writing itself if she hadn't urged me on.

The title of this chapter is from the Walt Whitman poem. Ever since Season Three began, this poem has been circling my brain; Scott Bakula's inspired portrayal of Jonathan Archer has driven this story from the start. So I dedicate this story to him and his creation.

---

**Chapter Two: Oh Captain! My Captain!  
**  
---

_When the night's quiet and you don't care anymore_

_And your eyes are tired and there's someone at your door_

_And you realize you wanna let go_

_And the weak lies and the cold wall you embrace_

_Eat at your insides and leave you face to face with_

_Streets of fire..._

_I'm wandering, a loser down these tracks_

_I'm dying, but girl I can't go back_

_'Cause in the darkness I hear somebody call my name_

_And when you realize how they tricked you this time_

_And it's all lies but I'm strung out on the wire_

_In these streets of fire..._

_I live now, only with strangers_

_I talk to only strangers_

_I walk with angels that have no place_

_Streets of fire..._

From _"Streets of Fire"_; Bruce Springsteen; Darkness on the Edge of Town.

---

The objects of Archer's dilemma were, at that moment, supremely content. Trip Tucker was tucked into an upside down version of the yoga cobra position, Vulcan style. T'Pol was behind him, her fingers playing over nerve endings on his back that screamed with pleasure and pain. Trip winced a little. At times, this got to be too much: one of the reasons he wore slightly thicker than regulation, corded slacks. Although they hindered movement... they did hinder… umm… movement.

The thing was… Trip wasn't sure what exactly was happening here. These neuropressure sessions were incredibly helpful, the upshot being that he slept like a baby later on at night. Well, most of it, anyways. But while they lasted, they were far from relaxing. For one thing, T'Pol always wore her silky pajama thing. Just how many of these did she own, for god's sakes? The other was that, well... she didn't exactly help the problem.

Trip closed his eyes and felt a silly giggle somewhere in his chest as T'Pol's fingers lightly probed the small of his back. He heard her murmur something as he flinched a little. He wasn't just ticklish on the soles of his feet and she was fast finding that out.

"Are you alright?" She asked.

"Yeah, yeah... go on. I'm okay." He wiggled his shoulders a bit, trying to lessen the tension in his muscles and distract the nerve endings in his lower back.

"You can come out of this posture now, Commander."

"Oh, okay... what next?"

"The menitu-shaayaara." She said. "Fold your arms and put them above your head."

He did as he was told, surrendering to her ministrations. Two weeks ago, they had decided to continue these sessions indefinitely and as needed. The main reason was that they were turning out to be mutually beneficial. Apparently, T'Pol slept better too these days. At least that was what she had told Dr. Phlox. If true, then they were probably the only two people on the ship who slept well these days. He also liked the fact that, since these sessions began, T'Pol and he seemed to argue less; their conversations had become less one-upping, less challenging, more casual, if not friendly. He liked that. He knew that T'Pol had no complaints either. Vulcans abhorred personal conflict; his experience with his teacher had taught him that. But he didn't really know whether she did, as well. Something told him that she had actually liked sparring with him. There had always been a spark in her eyes when they would argue. And he had to admit… every once in a while, he'd get turned on by the turn of her head, the arch of her neck, the icy-green fire in her eyes.

Geez... he was only a man for pete's sakes. And T'Pol was a beautiful woman. A beautiful Vulcan woman. One that he could easily get used to.

Anyway!

He'd always liked a good fight. Ever since the schoolyard bullies would get on top of him and pummel him, he'd fought and clawed his way through the world. But, in the end, his wits had always won out. He knew that his wits had gotten him where he was now; and that his wits were what Jonathan Archer needed on this mission. Jon Archer... who had been the closest he'd ever had to a big brother. And a best friend.

So he needed his wits about him right now.

"T'Pol—" he said.

"—Don't speak, Commander," T'Pol's voice was low but firm.

"Okay, but remind me to ask you something before I go… actually," he thought a bit. "Two things. I got two things to talk about."

He felt rather than saw her eyebrow raising itself.

"It's important," he reasoned. "And with everything that's been happening, I'm more than likely to forget my train of thought."

Slowly, breathing in unison, they both came out of their respective positions and he followed T'Pol's lead in sitting up in the meditative pose. The candle burned between them and Trip drew in a deep breath. He could hear his pulse in his ears, heavy and throbbing, slowing down by notches. He felt the by now familiar sense of calm and contentment envelop him. She sat beside him and he stole a look at her profile. Serene and perfect. She was like a stone statue during these moments: delicately built, with staggeringly beautiful angles and curves at just the right places. The reddish-gold hue of the candle played around the shadows of her face, her throat. Her eyes were half closed and her mouth slightly open.

Trip swallowed.

"T'Pol, are there other levels of neuropressure?"

Her eyes flew open. She half-turned toward him.

"I don't understand."

"I mean, does neuropressure work to alleviate stress on all levels? Or just a few?"

She looked at him steadily, her eyelashes hiding her pupils from the glow of the candle.

"Do you feel that your stress levels have been reduced?"

A logical question.

He smiled a little. Then sobered.

"Well, yeah. But I was wondering. I mean, I sleep better at night these days... but..."

She had turned fully toward him now, her face a strange mixture of quiet curiosity. Vulcans not curious, my ass, he thought. By the way, he asked himself, shouldn't curiosity be an emotion?

"Well, I sleep better nowadays, but I still... dream... of my sister." He swallowed again. Nightmares are still dreams, right? "And when I wake up, it ain't pretty."

He saw her give a tiny sigh.

"Commander, grief is something that Vulcan neuropressure cannot completely alleviate. So we are only treating your symptoms here. Not the—"

"—The cause. I know." They'd said the last few words together.

Not the cause. He knew that. Not the be-all and end-all.

But what if it was just the beginning?

Hmm… better not think too hard about that.

She kept looking at him but he couldn't return her gaze. He didn't want this to go down a failure on her part. God knows how she would take it; even with her logic and all, she held herself accountable in strange ways. She often took responsibility where none was warranted. He stretched his neck and looked down at the pattern of the rug underneath them. Something pulled at his guts. But he didn't say anything.

After a beat, she continued.

"I would suggest that you do talk to someone who can help you with the sorrow and pain you harbor inside," she said, her voice low, almost soft. "Otherwise, this is just a temporary measure."

Yes, she did understand, after all. He bit his lower lip, hard.

"But there's no one..." He stopped, still not looking at her. "And I've already talked to Phlox, remember? He sent me to you."

He turned to look at her. She was staring at the flame. And her face was unreadable.

He shrugged again, and got up off the floor.

"Well, I'll see you tomorrow morning, T'Pol. Thanks for the..."

Trip put his shirt on and sat down on the edge of her bed to pull on his shoes. His head was hurting a bit already. Weird. All that work and here he was in pain. Again.

Still facing the candle, she glanced back at him.

"What was the other thing, Commander?"

"Wha...? Oh! Yeah." He sat down again, on the bed.

God, why'd he do these things to himself? They made life so much more complicated. He could have just said "I need to speak of only one thing" and that would be that. End of story.

She was looking at him in silence, her hands folded in her lap – the picture of patience.

"Well..." Trip hesitated a bit. Then dove in. Always the best way, he knew.

"It's kinda related," he said. "Have you talked to the Captain lately?"

Her face was in the shadows now, the dancing lights of the flame behind her.

"About what… Commander?"

"...'Bout stuff." Trip knew very well he could be treading on dangerous ground here. Those two… god only knew – and probably most of the crew – that Jon and T'Pol hadn't the easiest relationship ever. As far as he knew, they'd never been close. And yet, there was something between them… when they looked at each other on the bridge, during dinner and meetings… something Trip hadn't yet dared to probe or define.

And now it seems they were even farther apart from each other than they'd ever been.

T'Pol sat in silence and just looked at him. He noticed she hadn't blinked for a full minute.

"Well, he's... well... I've been to speak with him. That didn't pan out too well. Since then, I've been meaning to... but I've been kinda busy."

"We've all been busy, Commander. There's no need to apologize."

"No, I'm not apologizing. I'm...just... tryin' to figure out some stuff..."

He took a breath and forged ahead.

"T'Pol, why don't you ask the Cap'n to take part in these sessions?"

"NO!" She said, almost immediately. Almost, he thought, as if in reflex.

Trip blinked, feeling a bit stunned at the vehemence of her reaction. Recovering, he looked closely at her. Her face had gone slack. He saw her stiffen even more than usual as her hands curled into fists in her lap.

Trip held his breath. Uh-oh. What now? He was startled. Did that sound a little too vehement for a Vulcan? He saw her take a deep breath, as if fighting for some sort of control. Then she turned back to the flame. He saw her throat working. He thought her cheeks had darkened a bit but couldn't be sure. The light was too low. But she didn't say anything else.

For a moment or two, Trip just sat and looked at her. No emotions, huh?

The silence lengthened.

Finally, he couldn't take it any more.

"No? Okay. But why not? Look, if I needed it… if I benefited from it, then anybody could. Especially..." he shrugged.

He saw T'Pol take a quick little breath. Her eyes looked dark, very dark, from where he sat.

"Do you mean for him to join in these sessions, Commander? With us?"

"No... no! Egads. No!" Did she think him a complete nincompoop or what?

Geez… that'd be totally awkward. He couldn't do neuropressure with T'Pol and Jon! The very thought made him cringe with embarrassment.

"I meant, why don't you ask him if he would like to have these sessions? I mean... with you..." He finished, lamely. And wished he was anywhere else. His stupid mouth. Always where it shouldn't be.

She was silent for a minute. "Don't you think Dr. Phlox would be the better judge of that?"

"Why? T'Pol, don't tell me you haven't seen what's been happening to the Captain? I mean, he won't even go ten feet near the hatch of Sickbay unless he absolutely has to. Phlox can't even get a glance at him edgewise, much less prescribe anything. The Captain just won't even go near him!"

Suddenly, Trip had to get it all out. He knew that much.

"... And then it's like he holds the door hinges open with those shoulders of his so they can't close. Geez... he goes in there and stands... like this... with his back to Phlox! He talks to the doctor with his back to Sickbay, can you believe it! Like he's gonna fly out any second. Even this time... yesterday morning... when he came to... he was tryin' to get out of there really fast. You told me that, right? Phlox said he watched Rosemary's Baby on the vid and had his dinner and then he was tryin' to sneak out of there late at night. Phlox had to sedate him and hold him down. And it was a good bit of sedative 'cos then he slept like a baby all day today."

T'Pol stayed silent. So he kept talking.

"He's workin' too hard. I swear he's obsessed with this mission. He's gettin' pissed off at anyone and everyone. He's losin' weight... he's not eating, you and I both know that... and I just know he ain't getting any sleep. Malcolm said he found him in the Command Center one morning with his head cradled in his arms, sleeping like a baby. He doesn't even go to bed in his quarters. And he yells at the Bridge crew! No one knows that better than you, T'Pol! Heck… he even comes down to Engineering and bugs the hell outta everybody there. I swear he's so on edge these days... he's like a... a... man teetering on a..."

T'Pol raised a hand.

"Commander, I don't think we should be talking about the Captain like this." She began to get up, and bent down to push the candle on the meditating table a little to the side.

With a swift, feathery movement of her fingers, she extinguished the flame, stood and faced him.

Trip opened his mouth to protest but the look on T'Pol's face made him take a breath. She knew. She had to know.

"But... but you know... right?"

"Yes, I've seen the Captain. And yes, I've noticed his problem. But I cannot help him."

"And why not? You're his first officer!" He realized too late that he had raised his voice a bit.

T'Pol raised her hand again. He felt sheepish but defiant.

"No." Then she looked at him intently. "But maybe you should."

"Me!"

"Yes, you're his best friend on this ship, am I correct?"

"Well... yes."

"Well, then, maybe you should find out what can be done to alleviate his pain." T'Pol went and stood by the door.

Trip took the hint and got up to stand in front of her. Something was bothering her but he couldn't pin it down.

"T'Pol..." he said, "we could both go. As a team. I mean, we are both his—"

"—Commander, this is the last time I am telling you this."

She had interrupted him. Trip felt his chest tighten a bit at her expression. Her face was hard. And closed.

"No, I don't think I can help the Captain. I don't think he will accept my help."

Trip could not help but stare. He felt like he was going to explode. He had to know.

"But why the hell not!"

Silence.

Something HAD happened! But what?

"T'Pol! What... happened?"

She kept looking at him. "What do you mean?"

"I mean... did anything... happen between you two... to... I mean anything that I don't already know about?" He knew he was perhaps probing a bit too hard even for his own comfort. But he couldn't help it. It was as if he knew there would be no other good enough moment to find out. "T'Pol, come on… you can tell me. What the hell happened for you to be... umm... reactin' this way? I mean, you used to be able to talk to him about stuff and now..." His voice faded at her expression.

Trip knew he was floundering. Guessing. Poking. Prodding. All hateful things that Vulcans probably detested as much as they detested Humans. Yeah.

But he had to know. "You two used to be close... umm… I mean..."

He saw her face tighten, but she remained calm.

"Commander, I am telling you that I cannot help him. I think, instead, that you can. I think he would welcome your... help."

She then did something that made Trip gasp. She stepped close to him and put her right hand flat on his chest. Lightly. Gently.

"Commander," she said, her voice low; lower and harsher than he had ever heard before. "If you are his true friend, I implore you to go to him. I implore you to find out what he needs. And if you count him as yours, then talk to him about your sister, as well. Perhaps that is what you both need."

She took her hand away and he began to breathe. She held his eyes for a moment. Then she keyed the hatch open and, after a second, he stepped through.

T'Pol sat down on the floor heavily. She re-lit the candle and took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Again. And again. She focused on the flame and brought her palms close, shielding it from its surrounding space so that it threw its light, hot and radiant, on her face. She realized her hands were trembling slightly.

"Maiya... seisha... toi..." Her breath was coming in soft gasps and she knew her pulse was erratic. "Maiya... wani yorosha... kohlinu..."

Methodically, she brought her body under control. First, the extraneous symptoms, then the deeper, more agitated nerve endings.

"Asha... asha... kae... itisha mori... kohlinu..." she tried to slide deeper into the meditative state, her eyelids drooping, her back hunching slightly, and her neck arching upward. Her breathing was still rapid, and she shook her head slightly, as if trying to free herself.

"E... asha seisha wani toi... wani toi..."

Suddenly, with an almost guttural moan, she threw her arm out, knocking the candle over. Gasping, she acted quickly and righted the holder and blew out the flame, probably bypassing dire events.

Walking to the bed, she sat down on it and brought her head down on her hands. Her body trembled and she gasped once, twice.

"Computer, turn off lights." Even her voice was hoarse.

What is happening to me! It is not time! Not yet... not yet!

T'Pol lay down on her narrow bed and embraced the pillow with both arms, her knees around her hands. The soft, cushiony, lower edge of the pillow burrowed between her thighs, shooting a sudden, pleasurable sensation through her groin. She gasped and closed her eyes. Her body called to her, asking for her answer... a permission she refused to surrender.

Her lips moved in the silence of the room. "Toi... toi... seisha wani toi..." the rhythm of the chant calmed her, filled her heat with its honeyed essence. Her eyes closed and the lines of her body became softer, rounder. Her lips parted and a moan escaped, her palms smoothing the satiny feel of the pillow, her hips moving in tiny circles, her back arching up, up.

Suddenly, she jerked awake, her eyes widening as she looked down at herself. She threw the pillow across the room and got up and walked, with almost jerky steps, to the washroom tucked behind the living area. Turning on the faucet at the sink, she splashed her face with ice-cold water. After drying her face, she looked at her reflection. It showed nothing but a greenish tinge to her skin and late-night puffiness under her eyes. But, as she leaned closer, her hot breath steamed the mirror, and her pupils burned with a fire she knew she could not control.

T'Pol walked out of the washroom and over to the meditation table. She lit the lone candle and adjusted its direction. She stared at the flame for a few moments, then walked over to her bed and lay down on it. No pillow. No cover.

Still staring at the flame, she let her body curl into a fetal position, and brought her right arm up to cradle her head. As her lids began to droop, she murmured again. "toi... toi... seisha wani toi... seisha wani toi... Jonathan... seisha wani toi..."

Somewhere deep in the inner recesses of her mind, she realized it was too late to take his name back.

Trip Tucker waited.

It was 0130 hours and a part of him hoped that Jon was fast asleep. He'd stopped by his own quarters and realized that the Captain had been released by Phlox because Porthos was gone. So he'd trudged over to the galley and ordered two glasses of milk, picked up one pecan pie and a slice of strawberry shortcake and, before his brain could process his cowardice into his limbs, had made a beeline for the Captain's quarters.

So he was now waiting. One chime. Two chimes. Three chimes. He guessed Jon was, after all, sleeping. That was good, wasn't it? Jon needed his sleep. He... their talk... could wait. A part of him was disappointed. The part that missed those late night tête-à-têtes, the slightly oiled guy talk sessions.

But the part of him that was relieved actually rejoiced in yet another reprieve of sorts as he looked wryly at the tray full of milk and cake. Not exactly an ensemble to get oiled in, huh! Oh well. Might as well go home and polish this stuff off. He had missed dinner tonight.

Jonathan Archer lay in bed listening to his door chime. Once, twice, thrice. Porthos, poor thing, slept on. Some guard dog you are.

The chime rang again. Two more times.

Go away! Please.

He knew if Porthos didn't wake up, he was home-free. Thankfully, his dog was too tired to do anything but perk an ear. After some time, Archer heard the swish of soft shoes fading away.

And he realized he didn't have the slightest inclination to get up and check whose back was disappearing through the corridor after chiming his door at two in the morning.

---

TBC


	3. Chapter 3: Of Perilous Seas

**TWO STEPS BACK - CHAPTER 3/5**

AUTHOR: darrah

SPOILERS: Twilight; North Star; Similitude; Shipment; First Flight; Impulse; and possible spoilers for Damage.

RECOMMENDATION: It might help to read the first two chapters to this story.

SUMMARY: This is an experiment in speculation. After "Twilight" ends, Archer wakes up in Sickbay to his old reality, his memory fractured, his life at a crossroads, his ship and world threatened, and his friendships strained. As the weeks pass in the expanse, he realizes two things – his center of gravity has shifted from his self to another; and that the phrase "tomorrow is another day" is a sop for the weak.

DISCLAIMER: Not mine. I only play with them.

ARCHIVE: Please keep headers intact and tell me where.

FEEDBACK: PG-13 for this chapter

CATEGORY: A/TP, some T/TP

A/N: The title of this chapter is taken from a line in Keats' "Ode to a Nightingale".

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**Chapter Three: Of Perilous Seas  
**  
---

_Everybody's got a secret, Sonny_

_Something that they just can't face_

_Some folks spend their whole lives trying to keep it_

_They carry it with them every step that they take_

_Till some day they just cut it loose_

_Cut it loose or let it drag 'em down_

_Where no one asks any questions, or looks too long in your face_

_In the darkness on the edge of town_

From _"Darkness on the Edge of Town"_; Bruce Springsteen; Title Track.

---

Ship's Night is a misnomer. It is always night on the Enterprise. People don't really sleep in a ship that is traveling at several times the speed of light. Those who do keep time, cheat it, bend it, perhaps even break it. The laws of deep space migrate stealthily into a ship's environment, and sneak into pre-established patterns of existence. As hours accumulate into days, then months, then years, the ship's crew loses any erstwhile awareness of the concept. Like gravity, time on a spaceship assumes an amorphous, phantom presence, forcing the crew to accept it, revel in it… enabling an immediate and necessary adaptation to nature's unpredictability.

"Exactly how far... has it... evolved?"

Archer woke, this time in his own bed, sweating and kicking at the distended belly of some phantom demon. Gaining awareness in a military second, he kicked the covers out from the tangle under his thighs and sat up, his head in his hands; his heart was pounding and his body was taut and ready...

He took a few deep breaths. It was no use. This was the same dream he had had two nights ago in Sickbay. Phlox was wrong. He was going nuts.

But how could it be so real... so incredibly, indelibly tangible? The scariest thing was that it wasn't as if he dreamed the same thing every night. They were almost cinema vérité – hard to dismiss as just dreams. Different acts of the same scenario played before his closed lids every time he slept. And when he awoke, it was as if he knew the next time would be a natural progression to where he had left off.

"Seisha wani toi... Jonathan... seisha wani toi..."

A sound akin to a growl escaped his lips. Arghh... damn it all to hell.

Taking off the drenched t-shirt, he threw it across the room, lay back down and stretched – splaying his back and buttocks flat against the surface of the bed.

He thought of the Xindi. Of Degra. Of Gralik. They still hadn't been able to track the plant on the Xindi ship. He wondered what Gralik's plans were for the moment when Degra and his cohorts came storming in. Would they simply torture him until he told them about the Enterprise? Or would yet another person lose his life because of his near misses and inept bungling? Yet another death on these bloody hands of his?

He looked down at his hands. They looked pale, the skin pearlescent with a sheen of sweat.

A sense of disquiet sat – heavy and crushing – upon his shoulders. The weight of the world.

The ship hummed, moving him inexorably to a fate signed and sealed; awaiting delivery.

"Less than six thousand left alive..."

He bit his lower lip and felt bitter-salty liquid oozing around the tip of his tongue.

A starship captain. Finally. How much had he hankered for this? How hard had he prepared for this? He had dreamed, lived, and breathed this moment all his life. And now it had arrived: his proving ground.

This should have been what he'd been obsessed about all those years. God only knew it was all he'd thought about when awake. Yet, now, when the stars outside his window sped by, and his childhood memories faded to black, he dreamed different dreams... of limpid green eyes gazing at him under sharply arching brows... of a low, liquid voice chanting spells of seductive harmony... of a future that couldn't have been... shouldn't have been...

The rustle of the sheets underneath his bare back tickled his vertebrae. Blood rushed south and his body responded automatically – fervid, primed. He swore softly. He needed a shower; a nice, long, cold shower.

He got off the bed and bent down to check on Porthos. Poor old boy. What an existence he had chosen for his loyal little beagle. No field to frolic in. No little kids to play with. Not even a mate to call his own.

In the darkness, he walked to the temperature control panel and turned the dial downward, then stepped into the bathroom. He slipped out of his pajama bottoms and turned the spray to warm, then cool. The water hit him with the force of a gale and he gasped at the sharp pain on his upper back.

In his dreams she was always there – hovering, watchful, quiet. And her smile... he remembered his astonishment the first time he saw it. She had thrown her arms out and twirled about in the middle of a semi-circular bed of freshly planted sunflowers. Astounded, he had laughed as he strode up to her and opened his arms and wiggled his fingers. She had stopped and looked back at him, her eyes teasing, asking. He'd waited. She had smiled again, but this time there was a hint of the temptress in the curve of the luscious lips. As she'd stepped closer, he'd felt her hands on his shoulders, around his back, her fingers skimming his temples. Her face was a study in tenderness: older, wiser, quieter... closer than ever before. He had breathed in her light, woodsy scent. It floated around her hair and her skin and pervaded his senses with a curious diffidence yet proprietary flavor. In the dream, he would find her scent everywhere – on their clothes hanging in the makeshift closet, in the twin towels hanging on the bathroom rack, in the pine pantry he had made for her. It hadn't been a luxurious existence – the two of them playing house. Rather, it had been cozy, domestic: with "his and hers" items in the bathroom neatly separated on the left and right sides of the rack; Left for his, right for hers. They even slept the same way... left for him and right for her.

The dream wasn't enveloped in thrill. Their little shack was gray, spartan, jury-rigged; replete with moments filled with tender sorrow, wild hope, and despair. Always despair. It followed hope as, at the end of each day, darkness follows light.

Every night, before he went to sleep, his body spooning hers, he heard her softly whispered words: "Sleep now, Jonathan… seisha wani toi... seisha wani toi... tomorrow is another day."

And, for him, the tomorrows always ended in oblivion.

Archer shook his head and soaped up. The words kept repeating themselves in his dreams. He knew not what they meant but they spoke to him of something deeper, longer, sweeter than any experience he had ever known. And, deep in his gut, he responded, as he always did.

You're getting sentimental in your old age, boy. She isn't smiling at you. Not now. Not today. Maybe not ever.

The dreams didn't supersede reality. After all, he knew that if he called her at her cabin-comm this minute, it might not be her voice that answered, but that of his Chief Engineer. And for the life of him, he could not look either of them in the eye. So he had stayed silent, watching, waiting to see if either of them mentioned anything to him. So far, nothing.

Which was just as well.

He shut off the water, grabbed a towel and rubbed his body until it hurt. The skin on his shoulder looked slightly red and bruised but he ignored it. It should heal. In time. All wounds did. Didn't they? The fistfight at the Human-Skagaran colony had yielded a bruised rib and a couple of sprains. Not bad for a forty-two year-old, huh? These old fists still packed a mean punch. But Phlox had been warning him, as of late, to take it easy, to let the MACOs and Reed's team handle most of the physical stuff. But it had felt good – the screaming gash of a bullet wound tearing at his muscles and tendons and leaving him gasping with shock. At least it had hurt. At least he could feel something. That was all he needed right now. To feel something. Anything.

He walked out of the bathroom and pulled on his uniform. Porthos was snoring. Archer smiled and pulled the mini blanket over the beagle and tucked him in. He retrieved a bowl and poured some water into it from the jug on his desk, leaving it by the side of his sleeping dog. The timepiece on his desk confirmed 0430 hours. Good. This would yield some quiet time to himself. An early raid to the galley for a cup of coffee and then a couple of hours in the Command Center would yield some focus, he thought, and let himself out the hatch.

The baby was actually quite beautiful. A tuft of blonde hair rose from an egg-shaped skull. Saucer-shaped blue eyes were fringed with sandy lashes and a button nose looked askance at cuddlers and cooers alike. Babysitters abounded on the Enterprise, especially with roughly eighty people volunteering their services. There was a surfeit of care for the child.

Phlox was in ecstasy. He felt he was learning something new every day. He had had no idea Humans liked to handle infants so very much. They were indeed an exceptionally demonstrative species – physically as well as emotionally. Human infants also seemed to be open, barring some initial discomfort, to physical affection. The kind of fawning and patting Sim was suffering by the hour would have made a Denobulan child break out in several rashes. Yet, it seemed the infant looked forward to these sessions as soon as he opened his eyes at dawn.

After the first day, Phlox never saw Archer or T'Pol in Sickbay. And, after Hoshi briefed him in detail about a particularly slow day up at the Bridge, he came to the conclusion that the Captain as well as the Subcommander must be avoiding the boy. But there was time yet, of that he was sure.

"Hmmm..." Phlox thought.

Hoshi had also mentioned that the two seemed to be avoiding each other, but that was an entirely different can of worms – one he might attempt to pry open later, much later.

By the third day, little Sim had grown substantially and so had his mind. He was inquisitive, agile, with higher than average retention ability. He loved his treks to the bowels of the ship – picking up slang and idioms, hanging around bemused crewmen, swapping "kiddie" toilet jokes with the younger ones. Phlox kept a sharp eye on his whereabouts – making sure Sim did not overstep any bounds, making sure that he did not infringe upon crew protocol or ship operations. But with his busy schedule while trying to coordinate Trip's care, he had difficulty following the boy's education, and asked Hoshi and Reed to oversee most of it. To their credit, the two officers fell into their new responsibilities with zeal. As he grew, Sim accompanied them to different areas of the ship during much of their off hours and quickly developed a liking for Engineering and Tactical. One night, he wheedled Reed into smuggling him onto the Bridge while the Captain was off duty and in his quarters. When Phlox got wind of it, he could not help but smile at the audacity of the ruse. The boy was already imprinted with the joie-de-vivre and people skills of Trip Tucker, not to mention his accent and inclinations.

The only friends he hadn't made yet were the Captain and T'Pol. But the Subcommander was innately reserved around people, so Phlox decided to let nature take its course.

Archer, Phlox noticed, stayed far away from Sickbay and avoided coming into contact with the boy to the extent of escaping into the Captain's Mess whenever Sim happened to be in the mess hall. This almost deliberate act of evasion seemed to be one that most of the crew on the ship noticed, ignored, and excused. Sim, however, seemed to have an inordinate amount of interest in the Captain – showering Phlox, Hoshi and Reed with questions about the Captain. What was he like? What did he do on the Bridge? What was his Ready Room like? Why was he the only Captain of the ship? Did he know about Sim? If so, why did he not come and play with him? Reed suspected hero worship. Phlox concurred.

The next day, on Phlox's urging, the Captain took Sim to his own quarters to play with his pet quadruped, and then told him of his fate. To the bemusement of both men, the boy took the news rather stoically, segueing nonchalantly into a session with Archer's model spacecraft. Or, perhaps, Phlox surmised, that is how Human children faced adversity – by immersing themselves in their toys and gadgets. It certainly seemed to be the way of some Human adults.

At night, he closed up shop (except for emergencies) and stayed with Sim as his fast-developing body underwent frightening (but fascinating to Phlox) changes. But his patient was tight-lipped and in control. Never did he scream or yell out, even deep in the throes of the lancing pain that racked his body.

One night, the Captain came by and rang the chime at the sickbay doors. Phlox keyed him in and the two sat silently, watching Sim's transformation. Rather, it was Archer who watched the boy; Phlox watched his Captain. It seemed to him that Archer had undergone a transformation of his own lately. Deeply engraved lines alongside the corners of his mouth cut into sunken, sallow cheeks and his mouth was a thin gash. As he became aware of Phlox's gaze, Archer turned dark, brooding eyes, in what was almost a skeletal face, to him. Phlox felt a bit stunned as he stared at what seemed a drastically changed man.

"What are you looking at, Doctor?"

Phlox knew he couldn't prevaricate even if he wanted to.

"Captain, I think it's high time for that physical you promised me a while ago."

"What... right now!"

"Of course not. Tomorrow morning at 1100? Or you can choose the most convenient time. I am always here."

"Give me a few days, Phlox. There is just too much happening right now." Archer settled back in his chair. "What's... Sim's status?"

Phlox missed very little, especially not a significant pause in speech.

"He is doing fine. He's in a lot of pain right now—"

"—Is he awake?"

"Barely. He isn't aware of us. The pain is too much for his conscious mind to apprehend anything else."

Phlox watched Archer's face carefully. It wasn't easy for this man to hide his feelings. But somehow, the sense and sensibility that made up the essence of Jonathan Archer had been buried deep beneath the surface. Now, his face held a bleak, pinched look that almost frightened the doctor. Phlox thought, his heart clenching in sympathy, this Human's face had once delighted and intrigued him as the antithesis of the Vulcan persona. At any moment, a myriad of expressions flitted across it, the thoughts warring underneath as colorful as the stained glass affixed to the high windows of their famous, steepled churches.

But ever since the attack on Earth...

Phlox shook his head. It wasn't going to be easy.

Archer was sitting quietly, staring down at Sim. The boy's body, spent with the effort of its growth, had stopped writhing and was now still. Phlox got up and fetched a container of steaming water filled with healing herbs and a washcloth. Setting it down on the trolley beside him, he began to lave Sim's arms and chest. Within a few seconds he saw Sim's eyelids grow heavy and his breathing deepen.

"I guess he is... I assume this happens every night?" The Captain's voice was low, and a bit hoarse.

"Yes, until he achieves an age of decelerated growth... probably in a day or so... at which point he should reach the stage resembling a Human in his early twenties. It should be less traumatic then."

Archer didn't answer. His face was blank, his eyes without expression.

Phlox tried another tack.

"Captain, when do you go to bed at night?"

Archer looked at him then.

"Is that a hint?"

Phlox considered lying. "Well... "

"Actually, Phlox... it's true. I can't sleep too well these days. But don't you think that's normal for what's been happening?"

"Is it, Captain? What exactly has been happening?"

Archer gave him a look that almost reminded Phlox of another night, spent in Sickbay.

"Don't start, Doctor."

Phlox spread his hands, palms up. Well, at least he is talking, he thought. That should be a good sign.

"Well, it's not that I'm not sleepy. But I can't go to bed. It's easier for me to fall asleep while I am otherwise engaged." Archer shrugged and looked at Phlox, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly. The Denobulan thought he saw the old Archer peek out for a second.

"You mean, you can only go to sleep if you're doing something else other than trying to sleep?"

"Essentially, yes."

"Hmm..."

Phlox got up and collected his container and washcloth.

"In that case, Captain. You can do me a huge favor."

"What?"

"I need to feed my pets."

Archer kept looking at him and Phlox could swear that his face was actually anticipatory.

"You want me to feed your pets?"

"No, no! I shall do that. However, I would ask you to sit here with Sim until I finish. In case he does wake up. Sometimes he does. Then if somebody is not with him, he feels a bit disoriented."

"Sure," Archer's face had settled. "I can just sit here, no problem."

"Thank you, Captain."

Phlox left them there and pulled the curtain in a semi-circle around the area. His pets were a little fidgety and he apologized in hushed tones for the delay. After feeding them, he checked on Trip Tucker's status. No change, for better or worse. Tiptoeing around, Phlox began to set up for the next morning, including the prerequisite tests for the Captain's physical.

After half an hour, he heard light snores and peeked around the curtain to see the Captain sound asleep, his body slumped in his chair, his head turned toward Sim. In sleep, the lines of his face had softened and Phlox finally saw the man as he once was – open, vulnerable, at ease with the world and what it had to offer.

Fetching a pillow and a sheet, Phlox covered the Captain with the latter and pushed the former under his neck, adjusting his head so it wouldn't loll to the side. Wouldn't do for him to wake up with a crick in his neck!

Then he retired to his office and began to catch up on a pile of correspondence from his wives and children.

The hours passed peacefully. Even his pets slept without a sound.

Around 0500, Phlox got up, stretched, and went to check on his guests.

They were both in deep sleep. Archer's right hand lay, palm open and down, on Sim's shoulder. Sim slept peacefully now, his body relaxed, his profile just a few hours away from that of the Enterprise's Chief Engineer.

Phlox went back to his letters.

When he drew Sim's curtain back in the morning, the chair was empty. Sim slept on.

T'Pol stayed in Engineering as much as she could. The Bridge was a place of tension at the moment. Even Hoshi and Reed seemed to want to stay away. They did their jobs and escaped, alive, to the mess hall, where everyone breathed freely. Hoshi had, in fact, approached T'Pol late that evening, as the mess hall emptied of its talkative denizens.

"Subcommander, may I speak with you a moment?"

"Yes, Ensign, what is it?"

"Ma'am, is everything alright with the Captain?"

T'Pol looked down at her mug of tea, then at Hoshi. The muscles in the woman's face were taut. She gave the ensign a second look. Was that grief on her face? Or fatigue?

"Why would he not be alright, Ensign? Is there a problem?"

"No, I mean... ever since Trip..." Hoshi's throat worked as she swallowed.

"Yes?"

"... I mean, ever since it happened, he's been so hard to deal with."

As Hoshi spoke, her voice rose a bit, reflecting her agitation.

"Subcommander, we are all suffering, we are all sad. But the Captain... I wish... I wish you would speak with him."

She'd had this conversation before. And she hadn't listened to Trip Tucker then.

T'Pol felt a churning deep inside her gut. If they only knew how hard it was to remain calm with eighty-one of them bombarding her with their numerous struggles...

No matter. It was better to face it head on. If a collision was a given, it was better to be prepared for it than be mowed under.

"Ensign, don't be concerned. I will speak with the Captain."

She saw the enormous relief flood Sato's face and almost allowed herself to smile. She had known that a First Officer's job on a Human ship would be difficult, but it rendered rewards when performed correctly.

"Engineering to Subcommander T'Pol."

She pressed the button at the comm and answered Lt. Sharma in Engineering.

"Subcommander, we are getting started in a half an hour. Please come down at your earliest convenience."

The sigh almost escaped her lips. She would need to meditate tonight. On the double, as Commander Tucker was used to saying to his minions in Engineering.

She decided she would sit for a minute longer and finish her tea.

The Captain...

She exhaled lightly, the sound echoing in the emptiness of the room. There were eighty-one other people on this ship. So why did it always come back to the two of them?

And, of course, Hoshi may not know about it, but she had tried. She had tried talk to him, eight days ago, in his ready room.

A voice, deep inside, had told T'Pol that this wasn't just a duty she was performing. She had known, even then, that the mending of his disconnect was as fundamental to her own well-being as it was to his. But she hadn't suspected just how much it would cost her; how much it would cost their relationship.

Before his accident, Trip Tucker had wanted her to talk to his Captain, his friend, mainly because he could not. She had thwarted him at the time. But try as she might, she could not shrug off her own charge in the matter. And telling herself that she was doing it for the Commander proved to be of ephemeral comfort, though convenient.

Then the accident happened, and the Doctor had called her to Sickbay and told her of the Captain's decision regarding the making of Sim. He had seemed uncomfortable, and had asked her to speak with the Captain, that is, if she felt it necessary. He had been worried about Jonathan Archer's part in the process, about his perhaps too quickly arrived at decision; but most of all, he was worried about their commanding officer.

He had also assured her that it was the only way possible to save Trip.

So she had tried – after overseeing initial efforts at damage control in Engineering – to get through to Jonathan Archer, not realizing the extent of the tear in the fabric of their dynamic. Not realizing that, somewhere down the line, each encounter between them had assumed a defining, tumultuous cast, marking time and creating irreparable fissures in the memory of the two years they had spent together on this ship.

Eight days ago, she had walked into his Ready Room. And she had thought she was prepared for what was to come...

UnVulcan though it may have been, she was infinitely happy she did not have to testify about feeling emotions back on her home planet, ever. She knew enough to label the shiver clutching at her insides as apprehension as she had walked in, faced him, handed him the piece of the magnetic particle, and explained its significance.

Outwardly, she gave no sign of her inner agitation. But stepping through the hatch, she had immediately felt his remove. He was totally unreachable; the simmer inside him barely contained.

He prowled, as he always did. Like a Terran tiger, caged.

"... Do what you have to do, but we need to get those engines back online."

He had barely glanced at her, but when he did, the breath caught in her throat, the indifference... or was it hatred... in his burning eyes rendering her helpless, paralyzed with indecision.

She had almost left then; after all, he had already turned away, dismissing her in the set of his shoulders as he sat down at his desk.

But she had stood by the hatch, looking down, carefully forming the words in her mind, weighing his possible responses.

Preparing for battle.

She had gone with every intention of asking Jonathan Archer the reasons for his turmoil, and also, his decision regarding Sim and Trip Tucker. She had gone prepared to do battle; as they had, many times before. She had also gone to help him, just as he had helped her – countless times. She had estimated an uphill effort and had garnered all her strength. She had pulled the cloak of Vulcan logic solidly around her, her face cool and her manner collected. But, deep within, she felt an uncertainty, and the quake of the uninitiated.

It unsettled her. Was she afraid? Vulcans were never afraid. Fear was an emotion; a crippling, negative one, at that. And whom would she fear? She knew, probably better than anyone, that this man could not – would not hurt her. Over and above all his traits, it was his sense of moral decency that she had been exposed to first. And she knew him to be, first and foremost, a gentle, kind man.

But his behavior in the past few weeks had grown increasingly erratic, unpredictable. And she seemed to be the focal point of its newest incarnation. She was used to his volatility. That, curiously, hadn't been a problem between them. She could handle a volatile Jonathan Archer. She could handle most volatile Humans. They were mostly predictable in their emotional outbursts. But what she could not handle was withdrawal of an extent to which he was subjecting her, as well as his closest associated within his crew complement. It concerned her; plagued her, even. And it made her withdraw from him as well, a cloak of formality enveloping them in the past few weeks.

However, aside from the rest, what she hadn't expected was the intense sense of... betrayal... this distance he had created would awaken within her. In the days this crew had spent in the Expanse, huddled together in one ship, turning to each other in comfort and crises, she had realized that she had been traveling deeper and deeper into virgin, uncharted territory within herself as the ship traveled farther and farther away from her own world.

But why had she chosen this path? Why had she stayed with the Enterprise? With him?

Ambassador Soval, as much as their relationship had allowed, had been relentless in his pursuit of a truth she was unable, perhaps unwilling, to surrender. She had not said a word to him. Neither had she sent any explanation to her family or to the Vulcan Central Command.

Her silence had owed itself to the fact that she simply did not know why, except that this was the only path for her to tread. For her – there was no other.

Soval had erected an argument that bordered on the emotional. He had almost railed at her, accusing her of contamination, of almost criminal neglect of her duties and priorities. She had not been concerned. She had weighed and measured all the possibilities, had decided she could not accept a "no" as an answer, before going to the Captain's ready room to ask him to allow her to stay.

And he had understood, without a word, in the end.

So here she was, her accomplishments frittered, her past but a vague memory, and her future uncertain.

Then the Seleya had loomed over them, its promise of dark and tempting depths her undoing. She had not asked for the key, yet it had been handed to her. At first, she had been deathly afraid, some deep-seated fear of the unknown paralyzing her resolve. But as time went by, she had known exactly what to do, and had done it, methodically and knowingly. Her gradual undoing had felt exhilarating: the blood singing in her ear, the drumbeat of her pulse a deafening choir. She had felt it roll over her and unseat her completely, irrevocably. Soon, she had not been able to stop the flow.

It was only after she had begun to lose total control that she noticed that the chasm between them had grown to such enormous proportions. Too late had she realized that she found it unbridgeable. Even if she had wanted, she could not have asked him for his help. He was no longer her friend, her bolster. He was now the savior of his kind. And that was all he knew and lived.

And now, despite all her efforts, they were both too far gone in their respective paths of self-immolation.

It was already too late.

She had also realized that – moments after his accident – this was what Trip Tucker had tried to tell her that night… before she had, politely but unceremoniously, ousted him from her quarters. He had missed it too. He had lost it as well – his own special bond with his Captain, his friend. He had obviously not been able to "get to the Captain" either – as he once put it. And now he was in a coma, his life hanging in the balance, dependent on Jonathan Archer's decision.

T'Pol knew regret was an emotion. But, at the moment, not giving into it seemed almost criminal.

It was not as if he wasn't aware at all. Since they had been in the Expanse with their less-than-meager quantity of Trellium-D sitting in Cargo Bay One, she had noticed that the captain had begun to keep a close eye on her behavior on the Bridge and in staff meetings. She knew she had to be careful. Any behavior at all out of the ordinary, and she knew he would be sending her to Phlox for a checkup. He had told her as much after the incident on the Seleya. So she'd become adept at subterfuge. It was easy to hide in a sea of roiling, semi-traumatized Humans. All she had to do was keep up on her meditation each night, and the days would prove easier to handle. The nights, though, were another matter altogether. She preferred not to think of the dreams, so she resorted to the only way to fast oblivion.

Still, there were moments of lucidity when she demurred – doubt assailing her resolve. Just where was she going, when there was no clear path ahead of her, no clear resolution?

At times, when she felt his eyes on her, and looked up before he could look away, she would detect a mix of expressions on his face that made her breathing a little erratic. He would not say anything, but she could feel questions crowding the air between them.

During these times, she could almost believe in the moments they had spent sitting together in a shuttlepod – looking, companionably, at what he had termed "the divine fireworks". She remembered how she had almost reveled in his physical presence – almost drinking in that curiously seductive and yet surprising strength of resolve he owned like no other. He was very… male, she had decided in a moment of unaccustomed female instinct. She hadn't been used to thinking in that manner about any man – Vulcan or Human. But he'd succeeded in arousing reactions in her she was barely beginning to detect, much less analyze. He had moved back a little to let her look over his shoulder, and she had felt the soft tickle of his hair under her chin, the brush of his right shoulder on her left arm. And she had astonished herself by not moving away, by staying within his personal space. Something inside her had rejoiced in the nearness of him and had refused to allow her to withdraw back into her ordered, pristine, Vulcan world. Something within her had wanted to jump. So she had reached out, grasped the possibilities and had not looked back.

That day, back in her quarters, she had meditated for a long time.

The fireworks had been astounding; but even more intoxicating had been the brief cadence of silent, lucid harmony between them... a harmony that Vulcans valued above all, sought in their lives, prized in their bondmates.

As they had forged deeper into the Expanse, she had come to realize that, over the years, these very moments she had spent with Jonathan Archer had started her on the path of a self-discovery she had yet to comprehend. He had fired her exploration but now he was gone… enveloped in his own brand of singular discovery, he had left her behind.

"Regarding the Lyssarian procedure Dr. Phlox proposed..." She had asked as she looked steadily at him.

When she had first begun to question him, he would not even face her. He had sat there, at his desk, hunched over a report, and while she talked, he had looked sideways: at her feet, at the floor, anywhere but her face. And now his eyes were on his monitor, evading her gaze.

"... If we weren't in the Expanse maybe my decision would be different..."

He had looked up at her then.

"... But, we've got to complete this mission."

His jaw was set and there was a defiance in his posture, even sitting down, that thwarted any effort to contradict.

"Earth needs Enterprise. Enterprise needs Trip..."

Then he turned away from her. Again.

"It's as simple as that."

No, not really.

But T'Pol knew better than to continue that line of questioning. In all her dealings with this man, she had never seen him this way. He was like an oyster, curled into its shell. And no amount of coaxing would bring it out.

But she had to try. One last time.

"Captain, was it necessary to make a simbiot? Would it not have been easier to synthesize the genetic material instead?"

Jonathan Archer sat back in his chair and ran a hand over his face, then his head. His hair stuck out every which way and she tamped down a sudden, completely uncharacteristic desire to smooth it down. Her palms itched with the need and she gripped the particle harder.

"Yes," his voice was soft, his words slow, almost reasoning, as if with a child. "But, apparently, it wasn't possible for Phlox to be that selective with the Human genetic code. It was untried and without precedent, so to be on the safe side, he went the whole hog."

At her raised eyebrow, he shrugged.

"He had to do the whole thing. Go the whole route."

She nodded.

"But you realize that the simbiot may grow to be a Human being, with all your sensibilities—"

"—You mean all of Trip's sensibilities?"

"...Yes."

She saw his eyes narrow suddenly, the look on his face intent. Then he looked up at her suddenly. She detected something in his gaze. Was it... curiosity? Derision? Surprise? Despite daily practice these past two years, she felt inept at reading the complexity of the various expressions on his face at any given moment.

His next words were slow. Drawn out. "Yes... he may have those... but he won't be Trip. I need Trip. Just Trip. We all do, Subcommander."

She looked down at the magnetic particle she held in her hands.

"I see," she said, and turned to go.

Suddenly, he pushed off the chair and, with a single stride, stood in front of her, barring her way to the hatch.

"Do you?"

Startled, she felt rather than saw his body, coiled as if a serpent's, invade her personal space, and looked up at him. His eyes were intent on hers, but his face was still closed, his eyelids hooded over darkened irises. He reached out and, gently, loosened the object from her hands, and half turning, dropped it on his desk. Turning back to her, he tilted his head, looking down at her.

"Just what do you see, T'Pol?"

Not "Subcommander" as it had been of late.

His voice was soft, almost inaudible, menacing. Suddenly, she felt out of her depth, unsure… young. Silence was the best policy, she told herself, over and over again. But she wanted more than mere acceptance of her fate. She knew that as well as she knew herself.

"Tell me, T'Pol. What do you really see?" He repeated, taking another step, his voice rough, the words a bit slurred. But he was not drunk, she knew that. She swayed a little, but stood her ground, a strange sense of readiness invading every tissue, every fiber in her body.

He stood with his shoulder almost touching her hair, and she felt the coarseness of his uniform brushing against the skin of her jaw. She could hear her own pulse thudding, the blood rushing about, the nerve-endings quivering in anticipation. She knew all she had to do was take one short, simple step, and the distance between them would end. One small step and the walls would crumble. She felt as if she was drunk; though she had never been, in her entire life. Until now. So this was what it felt like. This was the beginning and the ending. The giving and the receiving...

She looked up at him, and suddenly, his gaze was too piercing, all-seeing, all-knowing. His lips were slightly parted and she felt the soft fan of his breath on her face, mingling, blending with her own. She drew in a shuddering breath, inhaling his scent. His green eyes had darkened to a pitch black. She saw his chest rise and fall and knew her body was responding, softening in the age-old manner of the ancient mating call, relishing in his surging presence. Her eyelids drooped a bit and she arched her throat, waiting as he leaned in...

He blinked suddenly and jerked his head back. Disoriented and a bit stunned, she tried to take a step back, and found herself stumbling. He caught her arm, steadying her. She gasped at his touch but did not move. They stared at each other and she saw a muscle move in his jaw. He slid his hand down her arm and held her hand in his, turned it, palm up, in his own. And they both looked down, in silence, at her clenched fist.

She heard him take a sharp breath as he let go of her hand and stepped back. She knew he was looking at her but she could not return his gaze. Her neck was hot, her chest was tight and her body was trembling in some kind of private delight. The newness, the strangeness of what had just happened had shaken her to the core. This man aroused in her cravings that were beyond her understanding and control. But try as she might, she could not forswear her own complicity.

Suddenly, he swiveled around and faced the viewport, putting both his hands on it, and bending his head to touch his forehead to the glass. She stood there, unmoving, her eyes on the floor, her fists to her side, her breathing shallow, the silence between them eloquent in the length of its choosing.

The room was quiet: no comm-call, no ship-wide alert, no weapons fire to disturb their stillness; the hum of the ship beneath their feet a reminder of their relationship – the only one possible, the only one accepted and acceptable.

His back, stiff and ramrod-straight, spoke volumes.

"You are dismissed, Subcommander."

The words, spoken in a low tone, didn't register at first. She looked up then. And, for a full second, unbridled anger blazed in her eyes. But control reasserted itself in the next, and she turned, keyed the hatch open and stepped through to the Bridge.

She was aware of the slightly astonished gazes of her crewmates as she almost rushed past Reed's station to the lift. Thankfully, it did not make her wait and she stepped into it and watched the doors close as her body collapsed backward against the cool support of the back wall.

T'Pol deposited her unfinished mug of tea in the replicator and asked for a glass of iced water.

Her mind was in turmoil and her body in frenzy. Somewhere deep inside, she felt astonishment. For the first time in her existence, her body had betrayed her completely, that night, with him. The memory triggered, yet again, a chain of reactions in her body she still could not control: confusion, anger, fear, even sloth. All on the negative spectrum of humanoid existence. All playing havoc with her self-control, her efficiency. She could not understand... did not want to understand... what was happening to her. Analyses would prove fruitless in search of the unknowable, she knew that much from her readings of Surak.

When temptation strikes, when balance flees – harness stamina, gather energy, refuse laxity. Now, every evening, she repeated these directives, over and over again. Until some semblance of sleep claimed her.

She knew this could not last long without perhaps irreparable damage. But try as she might, she could not seem to deep-meditate. As a result, her sleep patterns had changed, her control was remiss and she was dreaming all night, every night. She had meditated on the possible side effects of her illness. But she was sure that it was not the cause of this... this malady. Whatever it was... it had come to her in the stealth of night, when she had been vulnerable and unresisting of its tempting, seductive allure. It had come from nowhere and upended her balance. And now it lay in wait – in the cool shadows of her subconscious, stoking the embers, biding time.

T'Pol's hands shook as she grasped the narrow glass, and drank thirstily. She put it down with a clang inside the replicator.

Enough!

She needed to be in Engineering as of fifteen minutes ago. Tomorrow was Sim's last day, and he would be waiting with Lt. Sharma in Engineering, eager to do her bidding. She could not disappoint him. He was a child of many moods and talents. Much like his older, all-too Human mirror image.

She strode down to the lift, punched in the code to Engineering and waited. Later, tonight, meditation was the first order of the day, on the double.

---

TBC


	4. Chapter 4: Mind Without Fear

**TWO STEPS BACK - CHAPTER 4/5**

AUTHOR: darrah

SPOILERS: Twilight; Similitude; Shipment; Fusion; Stigma; Carpenter Street.

RECOMMENDATION: It might help to read the first three chapters to this story.

SUMMARY: This is an experiment in speculation. After "Twilight" ends, Archer wakes up in Sickbay to his old reality, his memory fractured, his life at a crossroads, his ship and world threatened, and his friendships strained. As the weeks pass in the expanse, he realizes two things – his center of gravity has shifted from his self to another; and that the phrase "tomorrow is another day" is a sop for the weak.

DISCLAIMER: Not mine. I only play with them.

ARCHIVE: Please keep headers intact and tell me where.

FEEDBACK: PG-13 for this chapter.

CATEGORY: A/TP, some T/TP.

A/N: The title of this chapter is taken from Rabindranath Tagore's poem of the same name, in his _Geetanjali_.

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**Chapter Four: Mind without Fear**

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_I came for you, for you, I came for you, but you did not need my urgency_

_I came for you, for you, I came for you, but your life was one long emergency_

_And your cloud line urges me and my electric surges free_

_Crawl into my ambulance, your pulse is getting weak_

_Reveal yourself all now to me girl while you've got the strength to speak..._

_For You_; Bruce Springsteen; Asbury Park

---

Jonathan Archer could not sleep that week. At all. After tossing and turning for an hour every night, he would hole himself up in the Command Center and check out every single fact, every single piece of evidence, every single sphere they had so far discovered. It kept him from thinking too much of his actions and their consequences. Misery, anger, and guilt plagued him daily, like a bad cold. Every once in a while, he would feel a bout of intense pain in the back of his neck, followed by flashes of faces and events – Crewman Fuller, Gralik, a Xindi Reptile, Daniels, Sim, Trip, T'Pol...

...In a red blouse, her hair in a ponytail...

Even his dreams had become more intense, more heart-stopping – a strange mixture of the disastrous and the rapturous. Most nights he awoke to find himself in a sweat, his heart in his throat, his head swimming with unfamiliar sensations, jumbled words, hazy images.

And he was almost sure that he was now sleepwalking. Several nights that week he had ended up in the Command Center with no recall whatsoever of when or how he had arrived there. Things were bad, pretty bad. But, he surmised, things could have been much worse. The Xindi could have by now – if they'd wanted – destroyed Enterprise. It was the only ship of its kind in the Expanse. It would surely not survive against the combined efforts of the Xindi fleet. So why hadn't they? Archer had thought long and hard about this. Something – someone – must be giving them a long rope. Gralik may have been right after all. Maybe all Xindi were not the enemy. If so, then Archer needed to find that one powerful friend.

He also thought about Raijin. Poor, misguided Raijin. Well, no. Not so poor. And just maybe not so misguided after all. She had known exactly what she was doing. What was that old adage about the devil with an angel's face? He had almost fallen for it. He sure hoped he would never have to see her again. He certainly would never ever let her on board this vessel if he could help it. Or anywhere near his crew. His blood still boiled when he thought of the injuries T'Pol had suffered in her hands. It was a good thing Trip had been on hand to save her, because her Captain certainly hadn't! Seeing her lying on the diagnostic bed – bruised and pale – he'd felt as if a bomb had gone off in his skull. He'd been grateful Trip had been there, but something bothered him about the situation. And no matter how much he had tried, he could not bring himself to thank his friend for saving T'Pol's life. Instead he had controlled his temper with difficulty and stormed out. How very mature and commanding of him!

Of course, now, thanks to thinly disguised shipboard rumors, and his ill-timed comm. call to locate his chief engineer in the middle of the night, he finally knew the reason for the existence of that creeping finger of doubt. The thought of them together made his body grow cold, and his mind shut down. He didn't want to think about it, but images of them... intertwined... limbs interlocking, breaths mingling, bodies melding... came unbidden. Kept coming.

Anyway! Time to stop the clock on this crap.

Archer bent over the console – checking and rechecking the charts. T'Pol had done a bang up job so far. He could not imagine anyone else in her position right now on this mission. He could not believe he had been prepared to leave her behind. She just had to be the best science officer ever to serve on any ship, anywhere. Those Vulcans must have realized what they'd lost. Maybe that was the reason Soval had it in for him. She had dared to choose a Terran hothead over his much-vaunted Vulcan sophistication.

Speaking of hot heads.

Archer blew his breath out through his cheeks. Boy, was he in trouble! In too damned deep, as they say. He still could not believe what had transpired between them in his ready room a week ago. He had been under enormous stress, teetering close to the edge. He knew he should have dismissed her right away. Instead, he had let her remain, a million of his own questions circling his brain, his temper rising like bile up his esophagus with every word uttered. And, maybe unknowingly, she had pushed him a bit. Then all hell had broken loose...

Oh lord! He had almost kissed her! And it hadn't been all sweetness and light. Every time he thought of his actions, he felt a mixture of embarrassment, shame and anger. Had he hurt her, physically? Had he held her too tightly by her arm? He knew very well the bronze softness of her skin and how it could show every little bruise. It was probably already showing.

He shook his head. He was almost glad he hadn't kissed her. Almost. That look on her face, that clenched fist when he had pulled back had told him tons. But they had come close... to what? All he knew was, in the heat of the moment, in the nearness to bliss, it had seemed as if she did want it to happen.

And something did happen between them.

But whatever happened... whatever demon had taken possession of him in those few seconds, she had not pushed it ... and him ... away. When he had touched her, she had not moved away from him. Instead, he had felt her move infinitesimally nearer, closer; closer than they'd ever been. Then she had gasped a little and arched her neck as he'd leaned into her... her shoulder brushing against his chest... her scent invading his nostrils... it would have taken just another millisecond to reach out and slide his hand up the silk of her throat and touch his lips to hers...

A millisecond and a world full of courage.

He closed his eyes. Don't! Don't do this... he almost pleaded with himself. Don't analyze. Don't think. Don't remember. You can't afford it. Not now.

Right now, you can't afford to do anything other than... your job.

Sure, Archer, easier said than done though. Especially when she and Trip are probably...

... Oh for heaven's sakes, Trip's in a coma in Sickbay...!

Archer shook his head. He had gone truly over the bend, thinking this way after what had happened down in Engineering! Still, a niggling doubt picked at his higher reasoning. Did she believe that this whole... cloning experiment ... could be successful? That Sim would actually die in order for Trip to live again? What did she truly believe? What did he believe? He had no idea. And neither, it seemed, did his CMO. The whole situation was muddy. Even Phlox had no clear answers.

Archer knew one thing for sure. If this mission went the way they all hoped it would go, he would have to go back home and be responsible for a lot more than saving Earth. In fact, he would not be surprised if he faced a court martial at some point. But what other recourse did he have? He was playing god with one hand tied behind his back, but he refused to think of the day when he would be forced to acknowledge to himself that Trip had had a chance to live and he had botched it. Nope. This was the only way, for Trip, for this ship, and for humanity. Trip was a kickass engineer and a great acting captain. Enterprise could not afford to lose him right now.

The strange thing was that he had known that T'Pol would try to stop him. He had known that the strength of her beliefs in the Vulcan version of ethics would not allow this to go unquestioned. So, as soon as she had walked into the ready room with that particle in her hand, he had known that there was something else on her mind. Two years together. Yes, he knew her quite well by now. Just as she did him, he suspected.

He'd noticed her fidgeting, as much as any Vulcan could, out of the corner of his eye. But he'd ignored it. He'd told himself that he did not feel anything. Nothing at all. There was a void in his chest that preempted any connection. With anyone. He just wanted to be left alone. He didn't want to think or to debate the situation. And he definitely didn't want to talk to her. He knew she would try to stop him from creating the simbiot, and maybe she was right. But he could not afford to be weak. What had to be done had to be done.

But, even now, that little seed of suspicion plagued him. Yes, she was a Vulcan, and yes, she was logical, practical. She existed on the rational plane, refusing to give in to compassion or uncertainty. But he had known better. He knew her better. Something told him that she had given up on the possibilities too quickly for his comfort. Barring the initial shock when he had informed her of Trip's accident, it had seemed to him that she'd accepted Trip's loss with an equanimity he could never, in a million years, own. And her words in the ready room had further confirmed her position.

Had she really given up on Trip coming back? Was that why she had not moved away when he had almost kissed her...?

He could not help but feel a sense of... shame... at the direction of his thoughts but a million scenarios, alternatives and what-ifs crowded his mind. T'Pol was Vulcan, yes. But she was also a woman. And even though she had never said anything outright to him, he could pinpoint specific moments in their past interactions when they had been this close to...

He had known for a while that T'Pol was aware of his feelings about her. After all, he had told her as much after that fateful showdown with the Vulcans when the secret of her illness had spilled out. At the time, he had been disappointed at her silence. But he had accepted that she was sick, she was distracted, and perhaps, just a little skittish. She had been acting that way for a while, ever since the mind meld with Tolaris. And he figured it was only because of his idiotic denseness toward all things T'Pol that he had somehow missed the signs along the way.

He remembered the hours, after Tolaris's attack, that they had spent in Sickbay, with only Phlox for company. She had been... inconsolable, and almost human in her inability to face the downward spiraling of the remains of her control… the horrifying torment within her on open display for him and the doctor. At the time, he had been furious and penitent beyond belief. It had taken him one and a half seconds to realize that it was he who had pushed her toward her fate. Literally. He had hotwired, unknowingly, the whole sequence. And it could not have been more obvious if he had dressed her in her best, arranged her on a gilded plate, and served her up to Tolaris and his fellow renegade Vulcans.

Then, about a year ago, he had committed a worse transgression toward her. His most unforgivable sin had not been his insistence that she acquaint herself with the Vulcan doctors at the Interspecies Medical Conference on Dekendi III, it had been his total failure to connect the dots. Even when T'Pol had tried to remind him, it had taken a while for him to recall the incident with Tolaris.

He still had no explanation for this memory lapse on his part.

He'd felt totally confused at first. After the Vulcan doctors had reported Phlox's wrongdoing to him, all he could think was – why would Phlox do this? Why would he lie to the Vulcans? Had he taken leave of his senses? How could he place his captain and his ship in this kind of false position?

As for T'Pol... Archer could not believe what he had heard. She was ill? Since when had this happened...? He felt unbelievably hurt and angry that she had not mentioned her illness to him. Why? He could understand Phlox's reluctance to divulge her private matters, but he had thought that, after the way he had dealt with Tolaris and the rest of the situation, she could have opened up to him and shared a little of herself.

He guessed he had been wrong on that count, as well.

He had been furious too. The comm. call with Dr. Oratt had been a humiliating experience. More so because it had brought back the bitterness of the past… of his own constant clashes with Soval and his cronies, as well as his father's lifelong, and ultimately failed attempts to deal with the Vulcans on an equal footing.

Anger had indeed fueled his initial summons to T'Pol and Phlox and he had been prepared to deal with them, at least this time, just as the Vulcans had wanted him to. Far be it from him to come off looking lenient when it came to less-than-desirable behavior on the part of his senior officers.

But as soon as she had entered his ready room, all anger had been replaced with hurt, and a sense of profound sadness. And distance.

She had come in promptly and had stood – her spine ramrod straight and her eyes level – until Phlox arrived. Archer had glanced up at her but did not acknowledge her. Instead, he'd let her stand, not looking at her or speaking to her, as the minutes ticked by and the silence between them lengthened.

The subsequent conversation had been torture for him. And, he was sure, for her.

Even after Phlox and T'Pol had tried to tell him the truth, his pain had blinded him somewhat and delayed his understanding of his own responsibility in the matter. But his wake up call had been the look on her face when he asked her why she had taken the chance that led to her illness.

She had said, simply, haltingly, that she had been forced.

They had stared at each other for a long moment as the world around them dwindled.

Had he seen reproach in her eyes?

As awareness dawned he had felt miserable. He should have asked. He should have tried to find out whether she was okay. He should have paid her more attention.

No wonder they had not told him. He had neglected, yet again, his duties toward not only his first officer, but his friend.

Yes, it had taken him a long time. But it was finally during her hearing with the Vulcan doctors that he saw her, for the first time, as a woman with a set of personal principles that deserved his utmost respect and admiration. He had almost gasped when, earlier on the Enterprise, she had refused to give up the name of the miscreant who had done this to her. He could not believe she was capable of such nobility, such justice. Before that time, he had seen parts of her that defied description. She was brilliant, intoxicating and drove him crazy with her logic and her unconscious sensuality. Even her vulnerability added to her strength. All these were her unique signatures. And even though he had found himself adrift in a sea of helpless fascination, he had left the siren call of her various facets alone. To heed it would be too dangerous, too full of import and consequences. So he had kept himself slightly aloof, not from her, but from the thought of her... of them... together.

Then came the hearing.

Sitting beside her, facing the mask-like faces of the Vulcan contingent, he had felt a sense of oneness with her – a sense of fighting the odds together – that had taken his breath away. He had never, in his forty-one years of life, felt that before, with any woman.

They had stared down the system and won somehow. He'd figured that the Vulcans, after administering the obligatory slap on her wrist, would probably write T'Pol off as a loose cannon. He'd also wondered whether Soval would be apprised on the details of the matter.

He knew it was unfair, even unwarranted. And that he should have further fought her tarnished reputation, that they should have done something about Dr. Yuris. But, at that moment, he just wanted to take T'Pol home. To the ship. Safe and sound. So he had grabbed what he could and allowed his selflessness to take the back seat. His reward had been the look of immense relief on his first officer's face as the Vulcans allowed her to stay on Enterprise... with him.

On their way back to the ship, he had sneaked several glances at her – twin tastes of denial and amazement flooding his mouth. Their eyes had met briefly, and he'd detected something in them – something that made him suddenly, unbelievably, happy.

And, deep inside, a lightness of being invaded his limbs and made him a bit dizzy.

Later on, standing in front of the window in his ready room, he'd told her, in as low-key a manner as possible, how he felt about her.

"... But on a selfish note, I'm glad he did. I didn't want to lose you."

He had looked back at her as he'd uttered the words – half apprehensive, half-disbelieving of what he was saying and feeling. Was he really confessing? Was he ready for this... for her... in his life?

Her reaction had been almost non-existent, non-committal – just as he had expected – almost as if she hadn't heard him. Instead, she had said merely that she wanted to keep fighting.

He had agreed. He couldn't help but agree. How could he not?

And he had accepted her silence. He had expected no more, no less. This was T'Pol. There could not be anymore. And he accepted that.

For the next few minutes, they'd stood in companionable silence – a state that had become natural to them over the last few weeks – looking at the stars dotting the darkness outside. Even though she'd stood perfectly still, he could tell that she was distracted, restless. Then she had looked up at him and told him the truth.

The truth she had not dared tell Phlox or the Vulcans.

"Captain, I have mislead you," she had said, her voice a whisper, so low that he had had to bend his head toward her to hear her words.

The rest of it had become a jumble in his mind. He could only remember that she'd trembled as she spoke: her voice, her hands, and her whole body. When she'd noticed her lapse, she had clasped both hands behind her back and straightened her spine.

A part of him had wanted to take her into him, hold her close and let her lean her strength against his, but he'd been shell-shocked into near- catatonia by her admission.

As she spoke, her voice rendered hoarse with guilt and misery, the images she conjured up drove a dagger into his gut.

"I am to blame, Captain."

He felt stunned, confused.

What!

She would not meet his eyes. He thought he saw her swallow a couple of times before continuing.

"I... am responsible for this... disease. No one else."

"But... T'Pol—!"

"No! Please..." she drew in a quick breath. "Please Captain, allow me to continue."

He fell silent.

She looked at the floor.

"He did not... I asked for it. All of it. Tolaris was... he was different. He was ... what humans would call wild. I have never met anyone like him. He brought something out in me that I have never felt before—"

"—Felt?" Archer felt as if somebody had rushed him on a football field.

T'Pol looked out the window. Her eyes looked as if they'd turned jet black. She continued as if she hadn't heard him.

"... I craved it Captain. The experience. I craved him. Like a desert traveler craves a single drop of water."

He felt sucker punched. He felt as if something had collapsed in him, such as the will to live. He felt as if a light had been switched right off inside his skull.

He looked down at her. She still looked the same. But it was as if something fundamental had changed between them, or, maybe... inside him.

He tried to listen to her but her words had begun to flow together. They circled around him, making him lightheaded.

She said she had urged Tolaris to continue that night, despite his initial caution. She said something about a dream about her nights in San Francisco.

"So I was right..." he said.

She looked up at him.

"Captain?"

"I was right. You were spending a lot of time with Tolaris. I thought that was—"

He stopped abruptly.

She kept looking at him.

Don't say any more, Archer. He admonished himself for that slip. Be careful.

But he had to know.

"Did..." He stopped, then continued.

"Did you... did you want him?" He whispered. His voice sounded hoarse to his ears.

She looked back down.

"I... yes... I did. And I knew he wanted me. I know he wanted my mind and my soul and my..."

She stopped and swallowed.

He stood very still. His heart was still. Was it actually beating?

Her voice surged into his veins, like some strong anesthetic from an IV. He felt cold, groggy, as if he was under the Pacific without flippers. And the undercurrent was too strong.

"I did think about it, Captain, for a long time." She looked up at him then. "I thought about asking you... telling you..."

So why didn't you! He thought.

But he held his tongue.

"... But I knew that this was a chance in a lifetime for me to experience something I never have before..."

He felt as if every second that went by was a step toward realization. Of some sort. Like a doomsday announcement.

"...I knew he desired me. I knew that from the moment I met him. On Vulcan, this never happens. Our lives are... tied along familiar paths, Captain. I would never meet someone like this on Vulcan, never have this opportunity..."

He closed his eyes. He couldn't take this any more. He backed slowly away toward the window and stood with his spine stuck to it from his neck to his behind.

God give me strength, he thought. So this is why I got no reaction.

"We... meditated for a while. He did warn me... he told me I should think again. But I had already decided...I... needed him... needed his touch... we began to..."

He drew in a sharp breath.

"Please," he muttered. "Not the details."

She stopped speaking and looked sharply at him. Her eyes were wide. He thought she looked almost as if she was seeing him there for the first time. He had all but disappeared in the reliving of her memory with Tolaris.

He put up a hand. Was it shaking?

"I don't want to hear any... details."

She kept looking at him. Her eyes were green now. And very wide.

"Captain, I am sorry. I didn't realize..."

He gave a low, short bark of laughter.

But he had to ask. He was like a man asking for his last smoke.

"What...? What didn't you realize, T'Pol?"

Her eyes seemed stuck on his face. He wished, for the first time in their acquaintance, she would look elsewhere.

"Captain, I... I didn't realize the risks... the danger," she said. "I was curious—"

Curiosity. Oh, right. That explained it.

Wasn't that an emotion, by the way?

"—But you... desired... him, right?"

"Not in the way you think..."

Archer shook his head. Women! Were they the same everywhere?

She continued after a short silence. She told him that she had fought back. But it was only after she'd realized the extent of the price she would pay, that she had protested. She'd fought back then, like a wild Vulcan lematya, but Tolaris was too far gone in his quest for her soul.

"You know the rest," she said.

The silence, after her low-voiced, halting admission, was deafening. She looked up at him for a full fifteen seconds, her eyes searching his stunned face – her own flushed a deep green – then she looked away, at the floor, at anywhere but him.

Archer held her gaze until she broke it, his pulse thundering in his ears. An ice- cold sliver of something... was it disillusionment? Astonishment? Betrayal? Whatever it was, it clutched at his throat and rendered him mute.

She was silent as well, her head bent, the fall of her cropped hair hiding the arch of her eyebrow and her eyes from him. They stood together, in the clutches of uncertainty, doubt and shame, for a long while. Then, bidding him goodnight, she turned away from him. In that nanomoment, something... something in the sound of her voice – was it desolation? – galvanized him, and he put out his hand and touched her shoulder. She halted immediately, looking back at him, and he suddenly understood why he was the only person she had told... that she could have told. Why they were sharing that precise moment at that precise point in time. Why he had fought for her like a tiger fighting for its cub.

They were kindred souls. And, for him, at least, there was no other.

This didn't matter. Tolaris didn't matter. Nobody... nothing else mattered.

"T'Pol..." His voice broke a little in the middle of her name.

He halted, then swallowed. She was silent, waiting, watchful. He looked at her for a moment, then allowed his hand to cup her face, his thumb brushing lightly against her jaw. She looked at him, not moving away from his touch. And he knew, in that instant, what to say.

"T'Pol... we... all make mistakes. I am sorry I pushed you toward..." He couldn't say any more, his throat closing in the pain of their shared guilt.

She did not reply. But he felt, for the barest second, a slight pressure of the soft skin of her cheek against the roughness of his palm. Her eyes held his for what seemed like eons.

Then she stepped away, and left the room.

It was only after she was gone that he realized that her admission had not changed his regard for her an iota. He had known, at that moment, that his was a hopeless case.

All he'd wanted was for her to be well... for her to be okay. All he'd wanted was for her to be with him, by his side, fighting their battles, together.

Strangely, they had actually grown closer since that day, bit by daily bit, sharing pain and danger, rescuing each other out of hot spots, bailing each other out of tight spots. Every XO and Captain must have an understanding beyond normal ken, Archer realized. But he knew that T'Pol and he shared a bond that went beyond the mere personal. It spoke of a future that beckoned all of Humanity and all of Vulcan – in a bond that seemed to be a sacred pledge to protect and embrace the best and the worst of them all.

Then the Expanse came... and with it the threat of extinction. And with that came the descent into his own personal hell.

Then the rumors... Sim... Trip... two names that rolled off his tongue like fire and ice.

Two names that banished his soul to permanent perdition.

After that, he had withdrawn from them all. But, most of all, he had withdrawn from her.

That day, in the ready room, she had disagreed with him about creating and destroying Sim. And instead of discussing the situation, he had lost control. Even now, if nothing else, then the rough brutality of his dismissal and her headlong plight from the room plagued his conscience. He knew that since that night she had made sure to avoid him. In fact, they actively avoided each other now, only talking to each other on the Bridge and in front of crewmen and other officers. Their interaction was civil and polite and distant. Nowadays he sort of sneaked onto the Bridge, and if he saw her at her station, he would greet the crew and slink into his ready room. She had even sent the duty roster to him once via Hoshi. Now he routinely avoided having dinner in the Captain's Mess for fear of running into her. Imagine that, the Captain of the ship barred from his own Mess! She probably ate hers in her quarters, anyway.

Archer knew the crew noticed. Even bulkheads have eyes on starships. But at this point, there was not much he could do to bridge this chasm they had carved together.

He sighed and began to shut off command codes and lock down the display screens in the Command Center. This was going nowhere fast. His mind was filled with the thought of her... of them... and his body was crying foul. His concentration was nil right now. He couldn't even look at the schematics of a sphere without thinking of her long, exquisite fingers tapping the right buttons to manipulate the database. She had wonderful hands... strong yet gentle. Just the right combination for...

This time he groaned out loud. This was just too much. He needed something; something that would stop him from... thinking... about her, about everything else. But most of all he wanted to just lie down in his bed and go to sleep for the next forty-eight hours. When he awoke, Trip would be all right... alive. And maybe, just maybe, this entire week would have been a nightmare. Heck, this entire mission could be a nightmare.

He massaged his temples. He felt a doozy of a headache coming on. His stomach growled, and he realized he hadn't eaten since morning. These days, a piece of toast and a slice of cheese was all he could down at breakfast. And now his blood sugar was probably down in the dumps. The lack of food and adequate rest was beginning to get to him. But going to Phlox would be tantamount to an admission. And he didn't need any questions right now. Maybe because he didn't have any answers.

Archer turned around and stalked out of the room. He could not believe what was happening to him... around him. He could not believe he was thinking this way, doing these kinds of things... like throwing people in airlocks and torturing prisoners and playing god! How much farther would he have to sink in his quest to protect his people? And would they even care? Would they even recognize the extent of his sacrifice? What would his father think of him now? If Henry Archer were alive, would he ever want to see his son again? Would he ever condone his son's actions? Would he ever forgive him? Would he ever have been able to face his father with his head held high even if this mission saved earth?

Would he ever have been able to say – "Look dad, I made your dreams come true, dad!"

He felt himself running – almost a fast jog – away from the Command Center, away from the Xindi database... his breath coming in strained gasps. He thought he passed two crewmen greeting him, but he didn't stop. He kept running, and ran right into the doors of the gym, which were a tad too slow for him. His forehead hit the metal doors just before they swished open. Rubbing at the skin, he looked around and was glad it was empty. He knew that Malcolm and Hayes sometimes worked out here late at night. He picked up a clean towel and went to his designated locker to change into shorts and a tee-shirt. As he slipped out of his uniform, he sat down heavily on the bench and tried to calm down. He needed to calm down. He needed to let go of this fear... of failure, of irrevocability, of annihilation.

That was it. He needed to just do or die.

Tomorrow, he would bid goodbye to Sim. And that would have to be that. No more, no less.

Then he would have Trip back. And all would be well.

Daniels was a persistent bastard. Archer had no idea why he kept shadowing him and Enterprise. What was it about the guy that irked the hell out of him? Was it a certain oily insouciance? Or was it that idiotic earnestness? Either way, Daniels bugged him. More so, because he had very little reason to believe the man but often found he did. And it was just that the doubts and uncertainty came, without fail, after Daniels was gone, so that Archer would not be able to ask him the tough questions.

Exasperating!

Maybe she could help. This time, she would not have to hear it from him. If this Detroit business did happen, then he wanted her to see it for herself. He was tired of having to convince everyone, especially his science officer, of the existence of time travel. A part of him wanted to take Trip. Or maybe even Malcolm. Malcolm would be the right choice actually. God only knew what sort of danger they would face. True, T'Pol was eminently capable of defending herself and him in the bargain, but lately, he'd been weighing even miniscule decisions like sending her on simple away missions outside the ship. He knew how dangerous that line of thinking was for a man in his position and he already knew that if Forrest had an inkling, he'd get a sound verbal thrashing over subspace.

So, in the end, it was precisely this thought that guided his decision. Forrest would probably approve. Because, one, he needed her – a Vulcan – to finally believe. And two, she was, after all, his science officer.

He firmly quashed the little voice that said – come on, Jonathan, this is your chance. Make that night up to her. Be serious. Be professional. Be her Captain. Make it up to her... with her, you nincompoop.

And wasn't it funny how he called himself Jonathan nowadays. Before, it had always been Jon...

... And wasn't it strange how... in his dreams... dark green eyes under sharply arching eyebrows hidden by a waterfall of nut brown hair always made him catch his breath... pause... take a look around...

... No... This was still the Enterprise. So get with it, Archer!

These visits from Daniels were really messing with his head. Maybe he should have told Daniels about these dreams?

Nah.

He looked down. Porthos was tagging along. Damn, he'd left the cheese and the ham sitting out in the open in the Galley. He'd have to go back and put the packets back in the cooling units. And then he had to wake the quartermaster. What'd they wear in Detroit in the early 21st century anyway? Hmm... you couldn't go wrong with leather and denim, he figured.

Then he was standing in front of T'Pol's quarters, chiming her door. He hoped to god she was alone. He had no idea what to say or how to behave if she wasn't. Trip was no longer in Sickbay. Phlox had released him on the promise of a lighter work-week – something Archer had gladly signed off on. Enterprise was glad to get her chief engineer and movie night instigator back.

She took a little time to key her door open. Was she a heavy sleeper? A voice inside told him that he should already know the answer to that question. Dismissed! He replied back.

Porthos, as usual, bounded in, his tail wagging at the sight of her. It was amazing how his dog liked someone who didn't seem too fond of him on the surface. Despite his mood, he almost grinned at her expression when his Beagle went straight for the silky-looking cushion on the floor. He guessed dog hair and dog breath weren't too conducive to meditation. He made a mental note to keep Porthos away from her quarters in the future.

He realized, while apologizing for the late hour, that his First Officer was looking unusually drawn. Archer looked at her closely for a second. Was it the light or was she looking thinner, almost gaunt? He squinted a little in the half-light. Were those dark green things circles under her eyes or was she wearing some sort of makeup? No, they were circles. Her skin looked hollow and pinched, her eyes dark pools of exhaustion.

He had been lax in his duties with his crew lately, delegating without thought the upkeep of morale to Phlox and Trip. But could those two take care of T'Pol's needs?

He bit his cheek. Now where did that come from?

He noticed that she sat down when he went inside and did not get up off the bed. Definitely unusual for her. She was usually coiled energy around him. Even this morning, on the Bridge, she had been fine. At least, as far as he had noticed. He decided to let it go. No point, right now.

And he tried not to notice her sleep-ruffled hair, bare midriff and long legs clad in some blue silk thing.

She was mostly silent, her gaze steady, posture very straight, even as she sat on her bed. But her shoulders slumped. Yup. Definitely. Just a tad.

He felt a weakening. They were alone. Completely alone. Something in him wanted to tell her – like she had once told him – everything on his mind. Something in him wanted to confess it all, convinced that she would somehow understand, forgive, and accept.

Something in him craved her nearness, craved the soothing, tender touch that held him in his dreams. Maybe then he could really sleep a dreamless, restful sleep. Sheltered from the mayhem and the misery.

"Find something to wear that won't stand out in 2004."

She nodded, once. Then he hightailed it out of there.

Well, that went well!

Swearing under his breath, he picked up Porthos and strode to the Gym.

This had become a daily ritual after his all-nighters in the Command Center. He figured he could trade. Even if he couldn't eat, he could still exercise, keep up his fitness. This way, for an hour, he could forget Earth and all his worries. Today, though, he'd given the Command Center a miss. He needed to rest, keep his energy up. Tomorrow would be a busy day.

The Gym was empty at this hour of the night. He loved having it all to himself. Come to think of it, he loved having all the rooms on this ship to himself these days: the Bridge, the Mess Hall, the Galley, not to mention his ready room and his quarters – his two sanctuaries.

It was strange. He hadn't been this... this reclusive before. He had been known as Social Archer. He took pride in his sociability, his ability to hobnob with all strata of people. Come to think of it, when was the last time he'd had breakfast or lunch or dinner with Trip or T'Pol or any of his senior officers? Heck, when was the last time he'd dropped by engineering? Or the Armory? Was he really becoming a regular Ahab?

He shoved the worrisome thought away, stepped onto the treadmill and began to walk, then run.

He would put away the cheese and the ham right after this. Maybe make himself a sandwich before going to bed. His stomach growled in perceptive compliance as he revved up the speed on the machine, the pain in the back of his head receding at the sudden, welcome rush of adrenaline.

Yes, tomorrow would be a busy day. But, tonight, he needed sleep.

---

TBC


	5. Chapter 5: Night of the Scorpion

**TWO STEPS BACK - CHAPTER 5/5**

AUTHOR: darrah

SPOILERS: Carpenter Street; Twilight; Anomaly; Similitude; The Expanse; Stigma; Impulse.

RECOMMENDATION: It might help if you read the first four chapters of this story.

SUMMARY: This is an experiment in speculation. After "Twilight" ends, Archer wakes up in Sickbay to his old reality, his memory fractured, his life at a crossroads, his ship and world threatened, and his friendships strained. As the weeks pass in the expanse, he realizes two things – his center of gravity has shifted from his self to another; and that the phrase "tomorrow is another day" is a sop for the weak. DISCLAIMER: Not mine, I only play with them.

ARCHIVE: Please keep headers intact and ask beforehand.

RATING: PG-13 for this chapter.

FEEDBACK: A/T'P, some T/T'P

A/N: The chapter title has been filched from Nissim Ezekiel's famous poem of the same name.

---

**Chapter Five: Night of the Scorpion  
**  
---

_You pick up a little dynamite _

_I'm gonna pick up a little gun _

_And together we're gonna go out tonight _

_and make that highway run... _

_Rosie you're the one..._

From _Rosalita (Come Out Tonight)_; Bruce Springsteen; the Wild, The Innocent, The E Street Shuffle.

---

Trip Tucker was jarred out of a restless sleep by an insistent buzzing in his ear. He felt a moment of extreme panic before checking the clock at the head of his bed.

0633 hours.

He wasn't due in Engineering before 0800. He scrambled out of bed and answered the comm., and was greeted by the Captain.

"Trip, sorry if I woke you."

Hmm. Something was up. There was a note of urgency in the Captain's voice, he thought.

"It's okay, sir. Is something wrong?"

"Nope. But I need you to meet me in my quarters as soon as you can. We'll talk when you get here."

For a few seconds, Trip thought he could hear a note of enthusiasm, maybe even excitement, in his old friend's voice. He found himself becoming curious. What was it all about? It had to be ship's business, of course. What else?

Ever since his accident, subsequent rehabilitation and well… the Sim situation, it seemed to him that the Captain had done his best to avoid his Chief Engineer's company. Well, more or less. They did exchange work-related information every day. Only, now, Trip went up to the Bridge for his daily report instead of the Captain coming down to Engineering. Gone were the days when they would meet for an impromptu coffee in the Galley or a quiet nightcap or have a rambunctious breakfast first thing in the morning. He didn't even remember when they'd had their last dinner together.

And it wasn't just them. Everybody else seemed to be in on it, too. Hoshi, Travis, even T'Pol. No one, but no one, mentioned Sim in front of him or the Captain. He could swear at times that this whole crew was slip-proof where that... that... clone of his was concerned. Oh there had been one or two slips. Amanda had blurted something out the other day. Something about Sim having exactly the same color eyes as him. When he'd asked her if she had liked Sim, she'd nodded and smiled but refused to say anything more. He'd felt incredibly frustrated. He hated mysteries. And this was much more than a mystery to him. He had so many questions, not the least of which was what had it really been like for this... this... man?

And he had a tank-full of questions for the Captain. Suffice it to say that those looked like they'd go unanswered, at least, in his lifetime.

Even Malcolm tiptoed around him. Well, him and the Captain. It was like everybody knew their dirty little secret, everybody was in on the stuff; they must all have talked about it ad nauseam while it was happening. He could understand why. It must have been a crazy situation. And people need to talk about crazy situations. Everyone needs an outlet: a way to let off steam, to air grievances with each other, about each other...

... Everyone except the Captain... and his Chief Engineer... his "old friend".

Sheesh.

There were days that Trip wanted dearly to barge into the Ready Room or maybe corner Jon in his quarters one night, get him stone drunk and in a headlock (like he did when the two of them used to wrestle in the gym – now it all seemed like a lifetime ago) and demand to know what the hell had the Captain been thinking when he did what he did to Sim.

But he never did.

Heck maybe he just didn't have the guts to confront the man who'd, at the expense of everything and everyone else, saved his sweet ass from oblivion. Maybe he was a coward. Maybe he just wasn't ready for that conversation yet.

And maybe the Captain wasn't either.

Of course, nowadays, Trip spent most of his days with either Malcolm or the MACO team. For one thing, they were definitely more fun to be around. And god only knew he needed some respite in his life right now. Things were definitely getting a bit weird. What with eighty-three people cooped up in the ship trying to figure out how to make the best of a bad situation, the Captain pretty much unavailable and the First Officer definitely not open to morale-boosting protocols...

Oh well, at least he and T'Pol seemed to have connected through the neuropressure sessions. Although they had not had a session since his recuperation, T'Pol had contacted him the day before and scheduled a session for the coming night. And he had to admit that he was looking forward to it. Sleep – true, restful sleep – still eluded him. And the sessions had gotten a little easier to handle, mostly because the awkwardness between them had lessened somewhat. Though T'Pol still seemed very matter-of-fact... maybe even aloof... he was sure that she was gradually warming up to their physical closeness during the sessions.

Well, he sure was "warmed up". There'd been times when he...

Anyway, it did help though that they talked about work and caught up on daily ship's business, as well. It took the edge off for him. But he was pretty sure that if it had been anybody else... anybody Human... things would have progressed to something a lot less professional by now...

Yeah it was a good thing she was a Vulcan.

Or was it?

Ah hell!

Trip raced through a military shower, dressed, and made a quick trip to the Galley to pick up two cups of coffee with cream, a cheese croissant and a blueberry muffin. Jon liked these croissants. Maybe they'd help break the ice.

Then again… maybe not.

As he walked along the corridor, he realized that this was the first time in a long time he was headed for Jon's quarters. The problem was, he had no idea whether this was a good thing, or bad.

He pressed the chime. It took a little while for the Captain to key open the door, and the sight that greeted Trip dropped his jaw. Jonathan Archer was wearing faded blue jeans, a gray-blue knit tee shirt and a heavy windbreaker.

"Nice duds, Cap'n..." Trip couldn't help but grin. But his smile faltered when it was met with the same dour face that he had gotten used to from around two weeks after they had entered the Expanse.

Of course, so what else is new, he thought. He decided to let it go, yet again. No point, right now.

Archer accepted the coffee with muttered thanks and took a long sip. Trip backed up and stood by the doorway, noticing little things. The room was a little... untidy. Not that Jon was a neat freak, but he wasn't messy either.

Hmm...

"So... what's up?" Trip held up the wrapped goodies. "I got you a croissant. Thought maybe we could have an impromptu breakfast right here. We haven't done that in a while..."

"Oh, thanks Trip, but T'Pol and I've already had breakfast."

T'Pol and...?

Together? Hmm...

"Trip, we're going to Detroit—"

"—We are?"

Archer held up his right hand.

"T'Pol and I... we're going to Detroit, Michigan."

Huh!

"I'll explain while we walk to the Command Center. Daniels paid me a visit last night."

"Oh... what for?"

Archer picked up something from his desk and pocketed it. It looked like some sort of handheld device. Trip was bursting with questions.

Why T'Pol? Why not him? Why not Malcolm?

"—Hold on! Just how in the heck are you getting there—oh time travel, I get it!" Boy he was a little slow today huh!

There was a little quirk at the side of Jon's mouth as he glanced at Trip while they stepped out of his quarters. But he didn't say anything. Before, Trip knew Jon would have never let the chance go to pull his leg. Things had changed, huh? They really had.

The hatch slid shut behind them and they started to walk.

"Daniels says that three Xindi life signs have been found in Detroit around 2004—"

"—Shit! Messin' around?"

Archer gave him a long, meaningful glance.

Trip nodded.

"Hmm. Okay so he wants you to go after them? But how! And why the heck doesn't he take care of it himself?"

Archer kept walking, not breaking stride.

"He thinks this is the only way. He's gotta have clearance to do everything. To contact me, even. For him to get clearance to do this would probably be next to impossible—"

"—uh huh, I'll bet."

Trip sneaked a glance sideways. No reaction.

Hmm... Jon had a serious blind spot where this Daniels guy was concerned. Trip knew T'Pol thought so too. Oh well, no time right now to pursue that. Maybe she would while they were there; though he doubted that.

He tried out another question.

"So... what happens in the Command Center?"

"I don't know, but he asked me to meet him there. It's probably some kind of meeting point for us. We'll have to wait and see. "

"Last time Daniels sent you to another century, you had one hell of a time getting back."

Archer had taken out the device and was holding it open.

"He gave me this. Said he'd return us whenever we signaled him. These are temporal tags. We can use them to bring back anything that doesn't belong there."

Uhhh… Okaaaay... right. Hey, maybe his Starship Chief Engineer's brain was too puny and sleep-befuddled to comprehend anything just yet.

They rounded the corner to the Command Center.

"If anybody asks where you went, what should I tell them? With both shuttle pods in the bay, it'll probably be hard to explain."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw T'Pol exit out of the elevator on the far side of the corridor and walk toward them. Trip did a double take.

Ooooh mama! Snazzy outfit!

Hmm... wait a sec... are we sure this isn't some kinda elaborate hot date these two've cooked up? Trip felt a snigger gurgling up his throat. She did look good in leather. Geez... she looked... mighty doggone hot!

Oh man! Was this top secret or could he go tell Malcolm about this?

Turning back, he saw Jon looking at T'Pol. Hmm... so he wasn't exactly immune to some things yet, huh! And it hadn't escaped Trip that T'Pol's eyes hadn't left the Captain's face since leaving the elevator.

Geez... you two... how 'bout gettin' a room in good ole Detroit—

Then the Captain looked back at Trip, his face as dour as always.

Uh huh. Yeah. Okaaaay.

Jon's voice was monotone. "I'm sure you'll think of something. Try to stay out of trouble."

Was that a little smile? Nah.

"You, too."

Trip sighed and stole a quick glance at T'Pol. He thought he'd seen her glance at him a second ago. But her face was now turned away and she was already inching toward the hatch of the Command Center.

Oh well.

He hoped she'd be okay. And that nothing happened to her... to either of them. This whole mission was turning out to be a laugh a minute. Seriously.

"Here's the duty roster."

Trip accepted the PADD and looked at it.

Sure thing, Cap'n... I'll mind the store for ya, he added silently.

Yeah. And boy, some people have all the fun around here! Wait a second... he berated himself. I think I need another cup of coffee. I'm delirious. Fun was probably the last thing on Jon's mind right now.

He wondered idly what Detroit must have been like back then. Dark and scary, probably – with crazy fuel prices and crazier gang wars everywhere. But great music. For the third time in the past half hour he wished Jon had taken him. T'Pol'd be like a babe in the woods in that place...

Oh well, too late, they'd already entered the Command Center. So what happens next?

Oh shit, he'd forgotten to ask T'Pol about tonight. But they were coming back tonight, right...?

Hmm... this duty roster was all screwed up...

Actually, despite everything, Archer found that he was enjoying himself. After all, he was on Earth, 21st century, with an attractive woman on his arm. Well, so to speak. Still, this was like a fantasy come true. He had always wondered about Earth during this time and he was damned if he was going to let his wonder be buried completely under his mission. So he did look around, albeit carefully, just enough not to broadcast his enthusiasm. A tiny, wayward voice deep in the manic parts of his brain kept saying, too bad the Xindi hadn't shown up in Las Vegas, or New Orleans. Heck, New York would have been nice. Truth be told, he'd sort of jumped at the chance to show T'Pol an American city during this era; but with people bustling about and the stores open.

The 21st century American Metropolis would be a sight to behold, he'd bet.

T'Pol, as always, was not easy to fool.

They were walking down a street looking for a vehicle to snag, and he was glancing around, his heart in his throat. He could barely contain his excitement.

His eyes probably gave him away.

"Captain, would you like to visit any specific locations or would you rather we complete our mission?"

Busted.

She had asked with her usual stoicism and he declined without fanfare. No time. And no cash either. Besides, this was serious business.

But he said, "T'Pol, did you know that Detroit is still known as Motor City or Motown? Aside from the fantastic music, they've got autos coming out of their ears around this time, almost two cars to each person. This is the original home of the American automobile!"

He couldn't help it. It was too damned heady.

"Then I assume that the vehicle we borrow will not be missed by its owner; he or she can simply drive the other vehicle until we are ready to return the one we use." He had to smirk at that. Her deadpan was the best yet. Did T'Pol know she did dry humor like no one else? And she was really getting a handle on Standard English slang. Must be the proximity to Trip, he figured.

The thought sobered him somehow.

They secured an automobile and some US currency from a cash machine. Then they fuelled up and drove around the city a bit, casing it.

At night, it looked like any other big city in his century. Archer marveled that things on the surface hadn't really changed. The transformation in his world had been more fundamental, less cosmetic.

Earth at this time was disaster-oriented, fractious, imploding unto itself. Earth during his time was united, at peace; besieged not from within, but without.

He felt the touch of ice particles on his back, again.

At some point during the night, they'd discussed and decided against getting a place to stay in Detroit. It was only going to be for one night anyway. They could spend it in the car, if necessary. Besides, it would save some of the... borrowed cash. T'Pol had almost made him smile in her desire to give it back. He decided he would ask her, if ever he got a chance, exactly how and where did she intend to place it in her quest to return it.

However, in case they needed another day, they'd checked out a seedy-looking motel – the less attention drawn to themselves the better. Although thanks to T'Pol's attire (a voice inside him wondered what she must have done to awaken Lt. Bellamy so early that morning to land such an outfit from the quartermaster's stash) and striking looks, he had already noticed a couple of men staring at her as they had walked into the foyer. T'Pol had actually stopped and looked back at them when they whistled. Archer had had to drag her away by her arm. Her body had stiffened and her eyes were shooting Vulcan daggers at the men. They were, of course, in hog heaven. Archer hadn't known whether to laugh or cry at their expressions as well as the look on his first officer's face.

Thankfully, they'd escaped the motel without incident.

They found Loomis around midnight.

T'Pol had found three Xindi bio signs in a dilapidated structure on Carpenter Street and they had driven to a corner of the building, gotten out and skulked around. They detected the neutronic power signature as well. Yup, this was the place. They were wondering about the easiest way to sneak in (there was an electronic locking mechanism at the gate) when a car approached the gate.

"Loomis," the man yelled into the microphone and the gate whirred open.

They ran back to their car and turned off the lights and waited for the man to come back out. The best way would be to intercept him.

"Do you think that this Human is aiding them in this endeavor?" Did he hear some concern in her voice?

"Could be," he said.

They waited about ten minutes. It was getting a bit nippy outside. Even inside. Archer thought about turning the heating system on in the car. He might have to start the engine to do that. He wasn't sure. He looked around at T'Pol. She was sitting with her hands folded, her shoulders a little hunched. She looked uncomfortable.

"Are you cold?" he asked.

"No, I am quite comfortable."

Hmm. I don't think so, he thought. She was a Vulcan, she ought to be feeling the nippiness of the Detroit night. He wondered if he should turn the engine back on. No, it was safer this way. Less chance of detection. Plus heaven only knew what sort of law was in place about engine emissions in this era. Probably not a lot.

Well, a few minutes couldn't hurt. He started the engine and turned on the heating. He'd wait until they both warmed up and then shut it off again.

"You know, I still cannot believe that Daniels actually found Xindi here, at this time, in this part of Earth."

T'Pol just looked at him. In silence.

"What?" He knew her face well enough by now to know when she was brimming with questions. And comments.

"What is it? Tell me. Ask me, T'Pol." He knew he had to coax her a little. When was the last time they had talked? Really talked... like old times?

Oh T'Pol, will we ever be able to go back? Do you even want to?

Aloud, he said. "So you think this is a wild goose chase, huh?"

"I do not think any such thing."

So she had been spending time with Trip. She got the goose reference.

He shook his head.

"So tell me what you really think about Daniels."

"I believe you are entirely too trusting of this man."

Hmm. Trust her to cut right to the chase.

"You may be right. You know, he told me that this whole thing with the Xindi is not yet known in the 30th century..."

At that, she turned and looked at him, the slanted lines of her eyebrows almost touching the fringe on her forehead. Her face was... she looked surprised, even startled.

Suddenly, he felt an irrational touch of protectiveness. Something about the set of her shoulders invited his arms to curl around them.

Careful there, you.

He shrugged. "Something about the ripples taking time to reach the future..." he finished, lamely. He felt like cringing at her expression. He shook his head. He should have known better than to say something like that to a scientist.

"I thought you said he was from the 31st century?" Her voice was low but sharp.

Huh?

"Oh sorry." He touched a finger to his temple and shook his head. "My mistake... 31st century. Right, he's from the 31st century."

Hmm. Poor Daniels seemed destined never to gain credence in his science officer's eyes.

"Well... I brought you here, didn't I? I mean," he amended. "Daniels did. Do you still believe this... this city..." he swept his hand outward toward the glass shielding them from the outside air at the front of the car, "...is some kind of an elaborate hoax on his part? A joke?"

She glanced, sideways, at his hand – now back on the steering wheel. Then she looked away.

"I am only cautioning you. We have no way of knowing whether this is actually Detroit in the 21st century or not. It could all be completely untrue."

Archer sighed and shut off the engine. They sat in silence for another few minutes. The car was cooling down again, but the interior was still nice and toasty. He felt a sense of home. Of course, his own home was several hundred miles and two centuries away. And yet...

Suddenly, the electronic gate whirred. The man was back. T'Pol looked up.

"Here he comes," Archer whispered.

They watched as Loomis drove off, then he started the car and backed out.

Yep. This was the only way. And he prayed that this would not be a wild goose chase after all.

The other car gained momentum as it cruised down a side street, then turned into the up ramp of a two-lane highway. Archer had by now pretty much mastered the art of driving this vehicle. It was pretty fast on the uptake and seemed solid. The steering mechanism was a little loose, almost as if somebody had abused it recently. His own personal vehicle back in 22nd century San Francisco was far more advanced than this, but he had to admit there was a certain devil-may-care attitude involved in driving these things. They were unpredictable and could 'act up", he could tell. But he loved the feel of it under his hands and feet.

He could get used to this. It was liberating… exhilarating, almost.

As to the unpredictability... he knew T'Pol had her eyes peeled on the board in front of them should it betray signs of any potential mishaps.

Turning into the highway, he quickly found the other car and stepped on the speed pedal. It was cruising at about seventy miles an hour. He glanced over at T'Pol.

"Want to drive?"

She looked at him sharply.

"Now?"

He shook his head.

"No. But... whenever." He shrugged. "If you want to, I'm game. Just ask."

She looked out the window at her side. "I don't believe so. You are doing an adequate job of it. I do not wish to drive this vehicle."

"Okay."

He wondered, idly, what sort of driver T'Pol would be. Would she be a speed demon? A road hog? Or cautious and careful?

Hmm... probably the latter.

"Think he is going home?" He asked.

"It's possible. One can't be sure. However, it is very late at night."

"Well, we'll just have to follow him wherever he goes and nab him at some point."

"Agreed."

By now, the road had widened out to three lanes on each side of the divider in the middle. Loomis (if that was his name) was in the left lane and Archer was in the middle, passing cars as necessary, in order to keep up. He didn't want to follow too closely in the same lane and get extra attention from the driver. God only knew if the guy was packing heat, as they said around these parts.

No, he had to be careful. Extra careful.

He looked over at T'Pol. She was watching the front board. At his glance, she looked back at him for a moment then looked away. He turned his attention back on the road, and cleared his throat.

"T'Pol..." he said.

Spit it out, man. There won't be any better time. At least, get it over with. He kept his eyes on the road. He could feel her eyes on his face. She was silent, waiting.

"I am sorry... for the other day..."

Silence reigned for a few seconds. He knew she was looking at him still.

Ah hell! This was too damned difficult.

He took a deep breath.

"...In my Ready Room... I... don't know what came over me... I—"

"—Captain..."

He glanced at her. Her eyes were on his face and her hands were clenched, not just folded, on her lap. He felt his breath catch a bit. He lifted his right hand for a moment to forestall her.

"No, please. Let me finish. I need to say some things to you, T'Pol. And god knows I can't say them on that ship."

She fell silent and looked out of her window to the darkness outside.

He looked at the road in front and took another breath.

Easy, Archer. Take it slowly.

At least she can't run out of the room after I dismiss her, he thought. A bubble of crazy laughter gurgled up from his stomach and got stuck in his throat. Somehow he didn't feel like laughing right now. Heck, he hadn't felt like laughing in a long time.

"I wanted to apologize for that day. I was tired, I was angry and I was not thinking straight. The whole procedure with... Sim... was driving me insane. I just... I don't know what came over me... I did not want you to think... that I was making a... an advance toward you... I didn't want to..." He shook his head. "I wanted to ask if I had hurt you in any way. Did I..." he swallowed. "Did I hurt you, T'Pol? Did I bruise your arm?"

"No." The word was said softly. So softly that he had to strain to hear it.

He looked back at her. She was staring straight ahead, through the front glass. Her face seemed pale. He thought he had seen her – out of the corner of his eye – bite her lip. But he couldn't be sure.

Hmm. This wasn't going well. Did she even understand what he was trying to tell her? What did she mean? "No"? What was she saying? Was he forgiven?

A small voice inside him kept saying: And what should she forgive you for? It wasn't as if you did kiss her, you idiot.

Another voice said: But you wanted to. And that's all that matters.

He frowned and looked back at the road. Loomis seemed to be slowing down a little. Suddenly, he changed lanes from the left to the middle, then further to the right. Archer slowed down as well and followed at a distance, concentrating on the maneuvers of the other car. They turned into the exit ramp and followed it as it winded to the right, then narrowed to a two lane street, one going their way, the other coming from the opposite direction. Archer had to concentrate, mostly because it was dark and unfamiliar and he didn't want to lose Loomis.

Loomis sped through two traffic lights that were still red, forcing Archer to do the same. Damn! Fortunately, the street was deserted, no law enforcement in sight. Then Loomis made a sharp right into a side lane and went up a short hill before pulling up by the side of a small truck and backing into the empty spot behind it. Archer turned as well, but slowed down and stayed at a distance, looking for some sort of area to park his vehicle. As the car rolled forward a few meters, he found an empty space between two cars and braked, wondering whether it was a good place. This didn't seem like the poshest neighborhood to him; far from it, in fact. The buildings looked old and ill-maintained, with yawning holes for windows and peeling paint.

"I believe we can insert the vehicle between these two cars," T'Pol's voice broke into his thoughts.

"Mmm..." he said and began to mimic the movements of the other driver, who, by now, was out of his car and headed across the street. Archer stopped the car in mid-turn and peered at the man. Should they let him out of their sight?

T'Pol opened her door a fraction.

"I will find out where he is going," she said.

Archer looked at her.

"Be careful. Don't do anything right now, all right? Come back and tell me whether all is clear. If it's his own place, let's give him some time to settle in. I'll watch this street and his car." Archer leaned forward. "Oh, and T'Pol...?"

"Yes?"

"His name is Loomis. L-O-O-M-I-S. Or maybe with a 'U'."

A slight pause, then the passenger door slammed shut.

Archer winced. She knew that, of course.

Great!

Great going, Jonathan!

Talk about messing up royally; Wonderful apology and downright condescension. Now she is pissed at you even more. Now she doesn't even want to look you in the eye, much less talk to you.

He felt awful. On top of everything else that wasn't going well, he had messed this relationship up, totally and irrevocably, it seemed.

Then again, maybe he was overreacting. Overreacting to everything and everyone seemed to have become a habit with him these days. For all he knew, she was perfectly fine. Maybe she was just being quiet. Maybe she wasn't upset with any of this. After all, she was T'Pol – a Vulcan. Bred to Peace, as they said.

Maybe he was needlessly concerned.

Maybe she didn't care.

He wished he could, like in the old days, get a hold of her shoulders and look her in the eye and ask her what was wrong. Was anything wrong? Because somewhere deep inside him, he knew something was not quite right between them. He couldn't pinpoint it, but the feeling remained.

Archer parked the car, turned off the external lights and sat back, fidgeting. Should he go after her? Nah. She'll probably think I don't trust her.

Heck she thinks I don't trust her anyway. He had no idea what she really thought. The most awful thing was how different she was in those dreams. There, she was tender, gentle, and she looked long and deep into his eyes. They... she... felt so real. But he didn't remember the details once he woke up, only snatches. More bits and pieces came to him during waking hours, especially when he was with her. T'Pol bending over him, her hands on his forehead, her face bathed in... tears? The two of them squatting together on fresh cut grass... laughing... hammering away at pinewood... T'Pol with an apron tied around her slim waist, making his favorite breakfast... Eggs Benedict, orange juice, coffee...

And then there were the rumors. He had no idea what to do with them. Was she... was she sleeping with Trip? He had no idea what in god's name was happening between them. And maybe he didn't wanna know. When they'd all met up in front of the Command Center a few hours ago, he hadn't detected anything out of the ordinary between them, but maybe it was just him; he was preoccupied anyway, these days. Maybe everybody else knew already.

A part of him wanted dearly to ask Phlox, or even Hoshi. He could not – would not – ask Trip, partly because he cringed at the thought of that conversation. And partly because he could tell that Trip blamed him somehow for Sim...

Didn't they all though? Didn't she?

But what else could he have done?

And now, after that scene in the Ready Room, it seemed he had lost her, as well. As a friend. As a confidante. As... T'Pol; and this after all that they had been through in the last few years.

It didn't matter though. It shouldn't matter. Nothing should matter to him now except... this planet.

He took a deep breath.

This planet. His planet. His beautiful, bountiful, much-abused Mother Earth. What had she done to deserve the devastation the Xindi caused? What had her people done to deserve being annihilated like this? The very thought made him shiver with revulsion and anger. Unmitigated anger. Anger that stiffened his spine with resolve and some sort of... sick vengeance. The feeling curdled all the faith he had mustered into some kind of a bitter, pungent concoction that left a sour taste in his mouth... faith that had become a hideous Mr. Hyde of itself... bent on destruction and redress.

Yes, that was what he had become: Mr. Hyde.

So why would she, Archer? Why would she want to be your friend... your... anything? You're letting everything, and everyone, get the better of you. You thought you were stronger than this. But now the weight of the world is crushing you and you are pretty damned much letting it!

It was too hard to fight back though. He could fight tangible, graspable foes. But he could not fight demons when they came to him at night, in stealth and darkness.

And now he felt weak and tired. Spent.

Just a few more miles before I sleep... okay now… just stop being so pathetically dramatic – he told himself.

He rested his head on the steering wheel for a moment, looking up from time to time at Loomis' car.

Have I really changed that much? Seriously, have I?

Yes, but maybe it is time I did change. Maybe I have no other recourse. This is the price I have to pay for getting what I have always wanted: the command of my father's engine and permission to explore the universe.

He heard himself laugh. A short, bitter, humorless bark of a sound.

As he sat there – listening to the hum of the crickets in the woods beyond, the distant whirring of highway traffic, the cool city night enveloping him in some sort of memory cocoon – Jonathan Archer allowed a single, insane idea to enter and leave his head for one mad, unbelievable moment:

What if they truly got away... got lost here? In this city, or in New York, or say... even Tibet, or Timbuktoo? Should they, could they? Just the two of them? Alone, lost without a trace – some place, somewhere no one could find them.

Then all his dreams could come true...

And for that one moment, imagining that life, he felt free. Emptied of all responsibility, all duties, all priorities. For that one moment, he felt happy, sane, complete.

Maybe he really was going crazy. Maybe it was high time for that physical with Phlox.

Besides, he seriously doubted if that would be how she felt. He thought not. Heck, she could not even look him in the eye anymore. He'd have to kidnap her to have her be with him!

Sheesh, he was getting to be the king of black humor these days!

No, there was no other way for them. Dreams are subconscious yearnings, not reality. No. The only way for them was to finish this mission and go their separate ways. Just as he had been prepared to do before she'd decided to come with them to the Expanse.

You need me, Captain.

He hadn't forgotten those words. When she'd uttered them, part of him had thought she was crazy to want to stay with the Enterprise, to want to follow him into the jaws of sure death. But then he'd realized it would be easier to say yes than no. He'd come to know just stubborn she could be. So they'd faced the Xindi together.

He banged his head on the top portion of the wheel, not hard, but enough to feel. Yes, feel the pain, Archer. Feel it. Maybe then you can stop torturing people until they give in to you.

Sure, Forrest had okayed any and all actions with regard to this mission. Sure, he'd received a sort of carte blanche. And he had grabbed it with both his hands. No surprise there.

But he was no longer Jonathan Archer. Instead he had become a hideously twisted version of the man he had once been. He'd become Jonathan Archer Redux – savior of the world. Yes, and, if necessary, he would go to hell and back.

The question remained – was coming back from hell an option?

He didn't think so.

Before he went wherever he had to go, he wished there was something he could do about... this... situation with T'Pol. It tormented him no end – especially the dreams he had of her... of them... every night... without fail.

And Daniels was clearly lying to him, but about what? What about this... this Federation? What if it was all a big hoax? Crucial role in history – that was some story, huh? What if it was all made up to yank his chain, stroke his ego? What was Daniels' true agenda? And was he using the Enterprise and himself to further it – whatever it was?

Archer felt the familiar throbbing again in the back of his head. Phlox had said that the anomaly had given him a doozy of a concussion and that the effects might last as long as a month or more. The strangest thing was that Archer felt the pain the most after he woke up, even after injecting himself with a higher than average dose of pain medication prior to sleep. It also came back at these times, that is, after he found himself thinking about the dreams. He wondered if he was developing some sort of disorder... maybe some sort of clinical depression?

Nah. It's just stress.

He rubbed his hands together and blew at them. It was cold. No way she wasn't cold too. Vulcans are used to a hotter climate. Though she'd been living on Earth and on Enterprise for a while...

So where the hell was she? She was just supposed to get the guy's house number or something. He found himself getting anxious. It'd been more than ten minutes.

As if on cue, the passenger door opened.

"Captain, the man has entered a small shop of some kind."

T'Pol leaned in, pointing to a building about a hundred feet from the car, "and he is still there. He hasn't come out yet."

Archer thought for a second, then opened his door.

"Let's walk over, we can follow him from there."

They trudged in silence, their shoes crunching fallen leaves underfoot. Archer shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket. His head still throbbed.

"Captain?" T'Pol's voice was soft.

"Mmm?"

"Are you alright?"

He glanced around at her.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

T'Pol's face reflected something he couldn't decipher.

He saw her bite her lower lip.

He frowned a little, wondering if he had ever seen her do that before. It was an emotional reaction for Vulcans. He'd seen enough of them since he was a kid to know that they normally didn't do that kind of stuff.

And somewhere deep, deep inside him, there lay some sort of immediate, visceral reaction to the sight of her small white teeth sinking into moist, full lips. He drew in a short breath and forced himself to look away.

They came into the circle of light thrown by a single bulb hanging over the storefront. Archer looked up. "The Picker Upper" – the board read. Ah, a convenience store. They were still around in his century. They'd been a great idea – one that had stood the test of time.

He cranked opened the heavy door a tad and looked around. There he was – Loomis – skulking around, shoulders hunched, near something that looked like a glass-front closet; could be a refrigerator. There seemed to be cartons of what looked like milk on the first shelf. And bottles of water. He wondered whether either T'Pol or he should go in just to shadow the guy. He was getting a bit thirsty. He could use some water. So could T'Pol, he'd bet.

He gestured to her to stay where she was and let himself into the store and walked around, taking care to skirt Loomis. There were four people inside, including the storekeeper, but no one seemed to be in a hurry to leave. He wondered if there was a door at the back. It didn't look like it. The walls were all solid. There had to be a storeroom of some sort, and that had to have a back entrance. Oh well, he could do no more without attracting attention. Loomis was now reading the magazines and Archer caught the storekeeper looking over at him with a frown on his face.

Oh yeah, that's a good way to bring unwanted attention on yourself, Loomis, read the magazines for free!

He bought a small bottle of something called Dasani – some kind of spring water. It was sealed tight and looked clean enough. T'Pol should be able to drink this. He opened the door and came back to where she was standing, then moved to the side of the building so that the people coming out would not see them right away. The streetlight was farther down the road and a dark shadow threw its cloak around them from a tree behind. He felt its intertwined roots running underneath his boots.

He handed T'Pol the water and watched her squint at the label on the bottle. Then she held her scanner up to it. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"This seems to be the only entrance to the store. Let's wait a little. We can follow him from here," he said.

He looked up at the tree. It was huge. Maybe an Oak? He couldn't identify it in the darkness. It had thick, arching branches that looked pretty climbable.

Hmm... so... about how many paces to the storefront? If they needed to make a run for it, how fast would they have to move?

He looked back at T'Pol. She had moved with him and was standing just behind his right shoulder, still scanning the water.

"Captain, I understand," she said to him, suddenly.

Huh?

Archer bent his head and peered at her, his eyes adjusting gradually to the darkness. Her face was almost nestled at his shoulder. He moved a little to the side, then gestured for her to open the bottle cap.

"Drink the water, T'Pol. It should be okay. Aren't you thirsty? I am."

She twisted the cap off and offered him the water. He took it and drank a good bit and handed it back to her, watching, half-consciously, the long line of her throat as she threw her head back.

She handed the water back to him and he took another swig. The water was actually good. Cold and sweet. He handed it back again and motioned for her to finish it off.

"Okay," he said, keeping his voice low. "Now we just wait here until he comes out—"

"—Captain, I understand..."

He stopped speaking. ,She'd repeated herself. And there seemed to be an emphasis there, a certain… halting tone she rarely used. She was talking about something else, not Loomis.

"What do you understand, T'Pol? What Daniels' motive is?"

"I understand what you are going through... what is motivating you... I understand what happened in the... Ready Room."

Archer turned fully and faced her. His heart had started a fast tattoo all of a sudden.

"What... happened in the Ready Room, T'Pol?"

She looked down at the ground. He wanted to slide his hand under her chin and hold her face up to him so he could see her eyes. He clenched his hands to keep them from moving.

"I don't think you were... inappropriate in your behavior toward me. We... I... lost control."

"...You did?"

"Yes, and it will not happen again."

Archer closed his eyes for a moment.

"I...I... lost control too, T'Pol." He bent his head, his booted feet poking at a strange-looking pebble. Then he looked up and into her eyes. "I... wanted to kiss you," he whispered.

And I was out of line, I know.

They stared at each other. His heart was racing in his chest, like a toy train on a track. He could not believe he'd said that out loud, to her.

She held his gaze, her face reflective. Then she took a deep breath, and it was as if some floodgate had opened.

"Captain, it has been difficult for me. And I do know that it has been difficult for you, as well. But I don't believe that we can continue in this manner any longer—"

An ice-cold shiver ran down his spine to his toes.

"In this...?" What was she telling him? He felt as if the ground was undulating beneath him.

She moved closer to him, just an inch, perhaps. Her voice was low and he had to bend his head to hear her well.

"Captain, lately, you have been completely inaccessible to us... to me. We used to be able to argue and discuss many of our problems before. But ever since we entered the Expanse, I have not been able to say anything to you at all without feeling as if my words are simply an imposition. It is as if we have gone back to the days when I first came aboard. This is... painful to me. I came to the Expanse because I trusted you and I wanted to be with you... on this dangerous mission."

He opened his mouth but she silenced him with a look. He felt as if the moon in the sky had suddenly become the sun. He felt almost lightheaded.

"Captain, I was under the impression that you wanted me on this quest; that you needed me to be with you. But you have – ever since we entered the Expanse – rejected me and distanced me..."

He shook his head, intent on some sort of denial. But she held up a hand.

"No. Please allow me to continue. As you said earlier, we cannot seem to say these things to each other back on the Enterprise."

He nodded slowly, his eyes not daring to leave hers.

"I know that you have been under tremendous pressure. Captain... Lt. Reed told me about an incident you had with a prisoner..."

"...At the airlock?"

"Yes. And I know that I do not need to remind you of Sim. I understood, at the time, that the situation was unavoidable. But I wished that you had consulted with your first officer. I had hoped that we could have discussed the situation beforehand before you made your decision. That is the way the command structure in Starfleet functions, does it not?"

And that's why you came to me. I know... I know, T'Pol!

He looked down at the ground, waiting for her to continue. She was, indeed, his conscience. Somewhere deep in his gut he felt shame that knew no bounds. It stole his speech and made him cringe.

There was a slight pause, and she turned, presenting him with her back, her shoulders hunched.

"I have not been able to tell you this before but..."

He wanted to turn her around to face him, but didn't dare. He wanted to see her eyes, touch her face. All of a sudden, he craved her nearness. But something in the set of her shoulders forbade contact.

Her voice was low, a bit hoarse.

"Even before our experience on the Seleya... I had been having... dreams. Some of them do not make any sense. And some of them are of us... of some strange, barren world in some other time—"

"—Wait a second... dreams?"

"Yes, they come every night... sometimes all night."

What? Was he hearing her right?

"T'Pol, I thought you told me once that you didn't dream?"

"I don't... normally, no."

Archer felt as if he was hit by an automobile... no, an anomaly. She was having dreams as well? He drew in a shaky breath.

"You said... they were of... of us? Of you and me?"

He saw her nod. He felt a tiny burst of pure happiness germinate inside him somewhere. His voice sounded rough, a bit hoarse to his ears. "T'Pol... in what way? What are they like, these dreams?"

Her voice dropped an octave. He thought he saw the muscles in her shoulders contract.

"Fevered, strange... almost hallucinatory... carnal."

The last word was a whisper. He felt astonishment as well as fear. Fevered? Carnal? They were both dreaming similar dreams! Could it be that others on the ship were, as well? Could it be a result of the Expanse? It was possible. Was that how it had started for the Vulcans on the Seleya?

He moved a little closer to her, enough to be able to see her face.

"Do you think it could be the Expanse? When... exactly... did these dreams start?"

"I'm not sure. They have been increasing in intensity lately... but I have also been—"

She stopped short suddenly and looked across the street to some point in the distance. But he saw that her eyes were unfocused and vague. She was gazing within, he thought, in a sudden flash of understanding. And empathy.

"What, T'Pol? You've also been...what?" He asked with some urgency. He felt worried, almost panicky. This sort of behavior was unusual for her, to say the least.

She shook her head just a little. Her knuckles shone white around the neck of the blue-ish color of the now empty bottle. All of a sudden, he felt a strange sense of doom envelop him. His instincts were in overdrive, his palms turning clammy with some kind of irrational fear. He saw her take a deep breath and mimic the very human gesture of squaring her shoulders.

His forestalled her, his voice low. "T'Pol, I've been having the same dreams."

She looked up at him sharply, her eyes wide, her brows arching upwards.

"The same dreams?" Her voice betrayed a slight urgency.

"Yes, almost exactly what you've described."

They gazed at each other in the half-light as he felt her move a little closer to him. Archer forgot to breathe for a few seconds and realized, at some point, that she was speaking.

"I suppose it could be the result of the Expanse on all of us. It could be affecting us differently depending on our individual stress levels... exposing our latent fears, needs, even our desires..."

He looked around. The night was quiet, the wind moving stealthily through the trees.

Yes, that would make sense. He badly wanted to know exactly what she was dreaming about. Or did he? Maybe not. This was neither the time nor the place. Some day, he would ask her again.

But not now.

He sighed. Loomis had not come out yet.

He looked back down at her and caught her staring up at him, a strangely wistful expression on her face, and did a double take.

Then he thought back to what she had just said.

Fears, needs, even desires...

Oh god, was she thinking… was she talking about… Trip?

He felt winded all of a sudden, his stomach taut, his knees a bit wobbly.

"T'Pol?"

"Yes?" She was staring at him. She hadn't blinked in a while. He desperately searched in his mind for long-forgotten Vulcan body language information.

"T'Pol... what are you saying?"

She was silent. He waited a few seconds before he continued.

Just do it. Go ahead... make it easy for her. God knows she deserves to be happy, even if you don't.

"T'Pol... if you're trying to break some news to me gently, you don't have to." He tried to smile at her and ended up shrugging. "I already know."

That got her attention. He felt some kind of weird, dark amusement edging out of him.

Don't say it, Archer. Saying it makes it come true, don't you know that?

Her eyes seemed stuck on his face, wide and searching. Suddenly, he felt his age. She was... how old? Sure, he knew she was older than him in Vulcan years, but right now, she looked about twenty Earth years. She looked young, vulnerable, and unsure.

He shifted on his feet, scratched his cheek and stretched out his arms and shoulders. He could not, would not, meet her gaze. He looked at the ground and kicked the funny looking pebble out of the way.

"Look, if this has anything to do with… err… Trip, you two have my blessings. He is a good man. And I always knew that he was sweet on..." He drew in a shaky breath. "Just... whatever happens... this mission is more important to me than anything else right now... and I need you both to be..."

He squinted down at her in the darkness. He could not see her face very clearly. She was silent, still looking up at him. He could feel one of her shoulders touching his arm, and the fan of her breath on his throat.

Oh lord, not so close, woman!

Did she even know what her proximity did to him?

Come on, Loomis, come out! Now!

"Jonathan..."

He looked at her sharply.

'Jonathan...'

He felt a warmth slide up his spine to the back of his neck. She had never called him that before, except... in the dreams.

Then her hands were on the lapels of his jacket, pulling him toward her, gently yet firmly. He put both his hands on her arms to hold her away from him but he had forgotten that she was stronger than him. He tried to look at her, but there was a heat between them that took his breath away.

Then she stepped close, pressing herself to him.

'Jonathan... don't fight this...'

Wait a moment. Was that her voice? In his head... his mind? Somewhere deep inside, he felt astonishment, a deep awe.

And disbelief.

'No! T'Pol... not... not like this...'

But the softness of her mouth was already against his, moving and seeking. Her lips were moist, supple. He groaned, heat flooding his chest and stomach. She felt tiny against him, her body impossibly warm and slender, her hands sliding under his jacket and around his waist, pulling his entire frame flush against hers.

'No…" He heard himself mutter against her impossibly soft, impossibly luscious lips. Oh god... but it felt so right...

In a last, half-hearted attempt to stop the madness, he moved his left hand up her arm, her shoulder, to cup her head, his fingers mingling in the softness of the hair at her neck. But, then instead of pushing her away, he was kissing her back, with violence... almost, his lips nudging hers apart and his tongue invading her hot, sweet mouth. She arched against him, her hands skimming over his hips, and he felt the vibrato of her soft moan deep in his own body as they fused... forged together in molten lava...

At last...

The two words echoed, around and around, in his head. But he couldn't place the voice. Did he just say that? Or did she? Or did they both?

He felt disbelief, again. And reality beckoned.

'Oh dear god... we can't do this... T'Pol...it's not right...'

Had he really said that out loud? Or was it in his mind? He could not believe this was happening. But, for the life of him, he could not stop it... stop her...

'Jonathan, don't fight this anymore... don't fight us...'

He felt her hands slide, with an infinite gentleness, up his back, under his jacket, and groaned at the sheer tenderness of her touch. This was how they had embraced in his dreams... their dreams...

'Oh... T'Pol...'

A different, staccato sound penetrated the haze in his skull. A door opening and closing, then booted feet walking across the pavement. Someone whistled and sniggered as footsteps tattooed away.

He knew that voice.

He felt as if somebody had doused him with a bucket of ice water.

Loomis!

Jesus!

It was like being doused by a torrent of icy water.

Then he was pulling back, holding her – by the arms – away from him, tearing his lips from hers. She looked dazed and feverish, her hands still clinging to the lapels of his jacket, her mouth glistening… still seeking his, her eyes on his face, his lips.

Archer felt shaken to the core. My god! What had just happened?

"T'Pol!" He whispered, shaking her slightly. "Loomis! Come on... let's go!"

And he began to walk, barely looking back to see if she followed.

Loomis was a sleaze ball. If it had been any other woman, Archer would have had second thoughts about leaving the man alone with T'Pol, especially now. But he knew his first officer was more than capable of taking care of herself.

Funny that his first officer didn't seem to feel the same way about her captain.

They'd had a bit of an argument after they'd apprehended Loomis and Archer had made the decision to become Loomis' next "victim".

After the interrogation T'Pol had asked to speak to him alone and together they had pushed Loomis' chair (with Loomis tied up in it) into the bathroom and shut the door. Then they had gone into the far side of the room, near the bed, where T'Pol had accused him of reckless and impractical behavior. She'd thought it would have been far more feasible for him to sneak in with Loomis while he carried his next victim in, instead of submitting himself as one. What if Loomis was wrong? What if the Xindi didn't wait and sedated him right away? How was he going to deal with the rest of their mission if he was out cold?

She'd had a point.

Loomis had contradicted her right away, though, their voices obviously loud enough for him to hear. They'd never sedated anyone before administering the saline solution for at least an hour, he'd said. That seemed to be the procedure with them. For medical reasons, he'd assumed.

In the end it had turned out okay. T'Pol had had to stun Loomis into compliance and Archer had found and secured the bio-weapon.

Strangely, he'd felt glad in more ways than one to be leaving Detroit. The bioweapon was in Phlox's hands now. And the three Xindi were in Enterprise's lockup. That particular mission had been accomplished.

On to the next.

So... what now? As Archer entered his quarters, he wondered when, and if, Daniels would show.

But there were other things on his mind at the very moment: other, more troubling things.

Just what the hell had happened to him down there? To her? Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her... saw them...melting into each other... underneath that tree... her mind echoing in his mind... repeated words, ancient phrases… in dulcet tones of an alien tongue…

Oh god. This had to stop. They could not deal with this. He could not deal with this. Not right now.

This morning, after time-traveling back to the ship, they had not said a word to each other except the absolutely necessary. Trip had still been standing there, in front of the Command Center, as they had stepped out. He'd been shocked because to him they'd just left a minute ago.

After minimal explanation, Archer had left T'Pol there, taking the canister with him to Sickbay.

A bit later, he'd gone up to the Bridge. As he'd walked in, their eyes had met and he'd felt a yearning in his mind and in his body that threatened to burn completely out of control. At his approach, she'd turned and looked up – her eyes dark, unblinking, and her face flushed olive.

For a moment, they'd gazed at each other while everything and everyone else receded... for a moment, they were back in the darkness… under the shady oak... melting into each other...

Then she'd looked back down at her console, and after a beat, he'd made good his escape to the Ready Room.

He worked by himself all morning, composing a report on Detroit, signing off on routine ship-wide alerts as they came into his console, routed through T'Pol's. Around lunch time, she had sent her own report to his console. When he went out to the Bridge in the afternoon, Hoshi told him that she was in Engineering. In the evening, he'd had dinner with Trip and Phlox, listening with only half an ear to his CMO's barely suppressed excitement at the opportunity to examine the three dead Xindi.

Then, an hour ago, when he had called his first officer on her private comm-channel and asked her to meet him in his quarters at 2100, she'd accepted with her usual stoicism.

That had been the extent of their interaction for the past twelve hours.

Now, he felt a pervasive sense of shame that completely eclipsed every single emotion he'd felt in the last 48 hours. This had never happened to him before… this losing of control… this encroachment of his personal upon his professional. Every time it had begun to happen before, in his life before the Enterprise, he'd tamped it down ruthlessly. So what the hell was wrong with him... with them? It was as if things between them were gradually coming to a head and they were rushing headlong into... the Niagara!

He still could not believe the lack of decorum, of control… he had experienced, both in the Ready Room a few days ago, and in Detroit. For god's sakes... he was her superior officer! And what about her? Was there something wrong with her? Vulcans didn't act this way. What was she doing? Why was she doing this? This was not the T'Pol he knew.

She must be right, it must be the Expanse... it had to be... there was no other reasonable explanation. Whatever it was, it had to have affected him too, because they seemed to be slowly going nuts together.

Maybe they both needed to go see Phlox. But what would they tell him? That they were so hot for each other it was coming out of their ears?

He closed his eyes. Oh lord. It would be comical if it weren't so... terrible.

But the images haunted him. And he could tell from her face – during those few moments on the Bridge – that she too was going through her own brand of hell.

He was pacing now – burning a hole in the deck plating as he'd once overheard Travis remark to Malcolm. But it helped him focus. And he needed focus to figure this one out.

He sighed and shook his head.

Okay, think clearly – he admonished himself. Start at the beginning, but also the improbable.

Judging from her behavior, both in Detroit and earlier in the Ready Room, and if he didn't know his Vulcans... his T'Pol... better, he'd think she was in love with him.

But... was she? Could she be? Improbable as it was… oh lord, it was just too much to contemplate. Could Vulcans love Humans? Well, they were people weren't they? And knowing what had happened to his father once, a lifetime ago – it was entirely possible, if not probable.

Archer considered the possibility. Okay, if she did love him... why now...why after all this time, when he had accepted the inevitable between them, when his life was an inch away from damnation and ruin... had she chosen to take this huge step forward?

And this too after everything he had done to protect himself. He remembered, for the thousandth time, the moment when she had told him about Tolaris. She had, slowly and surely, driven a dagger into his heart that day. But he had accepted it. He had accepted her, just as she was. He had tended his wound in silence and become her friend, her confidante, her Captain – taking her into his life and opening himself to her essence, bit by tiny bit. But, that day, he had sworn to himself that that was where it would stay. That was where he would stay.

Thus far and no farther.

Oh, he'd recovered. At least, he'd hoped he had. After that, he had made up his mind that he would never let her hurt him again. Never again, not like that.

And, all this time he'd thought that she'd understood and agreed with his choice... their choice. She was Vulcan, after all, no matter what. And this was their mission.

So, no, it could not be. It cannot be! Not a chance in hell! It had to be the Expanse that was playing havoc with her... with him… with everybody's sense of self. Those Vulcans on the Vaankara and the Seleya... yes, it was obvious. It was imperative that he finish this mission and get her out of the Expanse. He could not risk having her stay in this particular area of space anymore. Especially after the last few weeks, he knew that every moment they spent here was a step closer to her possible destruction. And when – not if – this mission was over, he would take her back home to her planet and she would be back to her true self. He had to believe that. And he would make damned sure of it – even at the risk of his own life. She was his responsibility, come what may.

But until then, they were both accomplices in this crime. And whatever their mistake, it needed to be righted. This cannot go on. It simply could not. Fantasy and dreams were one thing, but he could not afford to give in to them. Not right now... and not with his first officer damn it! What would he tell Forrest? How would he answer for his actions? Soval, if he knew, would crucify him. Heck, he'd crucify Starfleet. And perhaps even T'Pol. Yes, she would bear the brunt of Soval's wrath. God only knew what Soval would do with her. Exile her? Disgrace her? True, she was no longer in the employ of the Vulcan High Command, but he knew from long experience that they had long arms. They would not let this magnitude of flagrancy go unpunished. Besides being the flag-bearers of sheer pettiness, didn't the High Command have even more stringent laws against fraternization than Starfleet?

Archer shivered at the thought of T'Pol dishonored, humiliated, and banished from her own kind. No, that could not happen. That would be the end for her. And he could not – would not – let that happen. He would never allow that, because he knew that would truly mark the end of their relationship… whatever it was.

And even if everything else fell by the wayside, he had to believe in one thing, if one thing only: they had time. They had the future. Someday... sometime... in the future... they just might… be together.

And if they did not, then it simply was not meant to be.

Archer sat down on the bed, his throat heavy, his eyes burning. He had always believed that he had the wherewithal to achieve the impossible, leap over the deepest chasms, and surmount any difficulty. But this... this Vulcan woman with her honesty, her innate intelligence and perception, her bone-deep beauty... had conquered him, right from the start, when he had promised to... literally... knock her on her ass. He knew that even then, while staring down at her stoic face filled with barely concealed enjoyment, he'd known that he'd met his match.

As the years had passed, he'd realized – bit by tiny bit and fighting it all the way – how essential she had become to his sanity, his balance, even his entire existence. And yet, he'd felt that very sanity – that very balance – slipping away when they touched... and when her voice had whispered across his mind.

No, this could not be. He would not let it be. It was too dangerous, too precarious a path – for him... for them both... right now.

The door chime rang, insistent, twice in a row. Archer looked around. Porthos was pretending to be asleep but his right ear had perked up.

Archer strode to the door and keyed it open. His first officer stood, at attention, just outside. He stepped back to let her in, avoiding her gaze.

"Stay, boy!" He threw over his shoulder at Porthos.

He moved to the sofa and cleared a stack of PADDs from it. He heard her enter, softly as always. The faintest trace of sandalwood and teak hovered in the air.

He kept his back to the hatch and gestured toward the sofa. "Sit down, T'Pol."

Half-turning, he walked to his desk and leaned against it, sneaking a glance at her. God, these days, he couldn't even look at her without something twisting in his stomach.

She stood in silence, her eyes on his, just a few feet from the hatch. The dim light in the cabin illuminated her face – tired and drawn, with dark half-moons etching her eyes. She looked... haunted, her face tense, watchful. And yet... there was something else...

He took a step toward her and looked at her closely.

Yes, there was something there, behind her sea-deep eyes... a subtle gleam; at the corners of that sensuous mouth… a tiny, delicate quirk. Archer knew he was staring. He blinked rapidly and looked away.

What was she thinking? What was she feeling? Because, yes, she did have feelings. He knew better than to doubt that any more. So what was it... apprehension? Anticipation? Eagerness?

Were they both on the same page?

A sigh gathered itself in his chest. At most times he could read her well, but tonight, he was too exhausted.

She remained standing. Her voice was soft, almost a whisper. "You wished to speak with me... Jonathan?"

Jonathan.

He closed his eyes.

You're not making this any easier for me, T'Pol. But I have to do this. We have to do this. There is no other way. It's for your own good, your own safety.

He opened his eyes and saw that she had taken a few steps toward him as well. She was now standing barely an inch away from him, her shoulders almost touching his chest. Her face was upturned, her eyes searching his. He looked into them... they were so green, so... deep. He felt as if he was mesmerized. His pulse quickened. The blood rushed about in his veins. He could feel her sweet, cool breath... smell her woodsy perfume. His head reeled.

A little niggle of... doubt... tickled the back of his neck. Was this normal for a Vulcan? Was she all right? Should he have her talk to Phlox after all?

But oh lord. So close... she was standing so close. All he had to do was reach out and pull her to him and slide his hands around her back and touch his lips to hers...

He knew she would not protest, that she would kiss him back... eagerly, fervently... wrap her slender arms around him... like that cool, starry night back in Detroit.

Oh lord! Who knew that his cool, collected Vulcan had such passion inside of her? And that she would be so open... so naked... in her longing for him.

He felt a deep, hungry heat... a melting... within him. She was so close... and he was like a moth to her flame. As he felt his body's response to her, he knew another... twin... surge of need... of raw, pent up desire. It was as if there was a mirror image of his... yearning... buried inside. It came alive when he… when they, the two of them… came alive.

He tried to breathe normally but her presence in his quarters, within the intimate circle of his belongings, was wreaking havoc on his senses. This had never happened to him before. Things had indeed changed for him... for them... after Detroit. When it came to this woman, his head was no longer in control over his... over anything.

He shook his head, trying to clear it. Just what the hell was happening here... happening to him?

He breathed in a gulp of air and turned his back to her, fiddling with a PADD on his desk.

_Control... I need control. I can't afford to lose this battle dammit, so just get on with it!  
_  
"T'Pol, I think we should talk about what happened in Detroit..."

He knew she was looking at him, something in her presence pulling at his gut, pulling him back to her, to at least face her. He turned around.

"I'd like to apologize for what happened. I don't know what came over me... both in the Ready Room and that night back in Detroit. I... I don't usually give in to weakness like that... "

She opened her mouth. He put up a hand.

"Let me finish."

She looked up at him. Her eyes were very dark. Her face shadowed. Maybe it was the light, or lack of it, in his cabin. He had dimmed it earlier.

He turned away, pacing a little.

"T'Pol... we can't have a repeat of..." he drew in a breath, he couldn't utter the words just yet. "I mean, you and I both know that it's... it's unethical for us to get involved... like... that. Starfleet and the High Command would have our heads on a plate. We both know that."

He knew he was repeating himself. He swallowed, his throat hurting with the effort.

Stop right there! There's still time. Time to make it up to her. You promised you would make it up to her. This is your last chance. Take it! Grab it!

He shook his head; he knew that if he stopped now he would never say it. It would be imexorable from here on. There was no way in hell he'd be able to stop what would happen next.

He had to keep going. He couldn't stop. He needed to say it; to have her understand. Surely, she would understand? And agree?

When the time came… and he was sure that it would come, someday – surely she would... wait for him... for them?

He didn't look back at her; he could not face her now. He needed to get this out now even if it killed him.

"This... this mission, T'Pol, it's a make or break thing for all of us. We can't get distracted. I can't get distracted. And neither can you. We need all of our faculties, all our energy, our focus..." he knew he was blabbering now. He took a deep breath.

"I can't... do this... we can't do this. We can't... be with each other right now. We... we need to take a step back." He finished, his voice a hoarse whisper.

He stopped, turned and looked at her. And something cold clutched at his chest, squeezing tight, forcing the breath from him.

Her hands were behind her back, her eyes dark and unreadable. Her face had hardened somehow. She looked almost exactly like when he had first met her; calm, collected, condescending.

Aloof.

Vulcan.

So very Vulcan.

His... T'Pol... had disappeared.

One step forward, two steps back.

He sat down, heavily, on top of his desk. His knees felt like jelly all of a sudden.

Her voice, when it came, was surprisingly gentle. But there was something in it that chilled him, estranged him.

He knew that he had lost her. Completely.

"Captain, I came on this mission because it was my responsibility to see you and your crew succeed in your endeavors. I believe that I have performed that task to the best of my ability. And I believe that is all you have ever needed from me."

Archer stared at her.

What's she talking about? Am I hearing this right? That is all I ever needed...? What the hell was she talking about? Did she hear anything at all of what I just said?

"So I apologize, as well. I am beginning to think it is the Expanse and its effect on me. I will need to be more careful from now on—"

As she spoke, she turned and walked toward the hatch of his cabin. He did not try to get up. But he had to speak.

"T'Pol... I do want this relationship. I am only asking that we wait until all this is over..."

She stopped and looked back. Not at him. At the floor somewhere near his feet. And, for the first time in their years together, he could not read her at all. She had closed herself to him.

"—T'Pol... please," he only half-heard his own voice. It sounded strained. "T'Pol, don't go."

Her silence was deafening.

He felt an immense pressure in his lungs, a low hum in his ears. "What... what about... Trip?"

She stared at him in silence, kept staring, her chin thrust out, her posture almost military. He knew she wouldn't answer the question. But he'd had his answer, on a late night comm. call, what seemed like a million nights ago.

Maybe it was just as well.

He felt bereft. Wasn't there any way he could make it up to her? Any way at all? Wasn't there any middle road for them? Why was it only extremes between them? Either make, or break?

... T'Pol, I didn't... I don't want to lose you...

"T'Pol, please understand..." He knew his voice had broken a bit. He felt as if he was going into shock. He shivered. The room was cold. She must be even more cold, he thought.

He felt his chest expand. Like an automaton, he stood up.

"I'm sorry... T'Pol. I didn't mean to pry. I didn't mean to hurt you. If... if you ever need to talk, I am here..."

His voice trailed off as she looked up at him and he felt something slam into his solar plexus. Her face was stiff but her hands were clenched and her eyes burned with an expression he could not define. He felt as if he had been punched in the gut.

"You have not hurt me, Captain. Vulcans do not hurt."

Yes, this was indeed the end. Almost three years and this is where it ends? Vulcans do not hurt? What about you? What about… us?

"Yes sir, and for that you have my gratitude. I know you are here if I need... to talk to you. You always have been."

Her voice was low, a bit hoarse.

And I always shall be, he added.

But for the life of him, he could not say the words aloud.

Then she was gone.

---

THE END


End file.
